


Consumptive Love

by SlytherinsDragon



Series: Holmescest Works [14]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Blood Drinking, Dubious Morality, Fluff, Human/Vampire Relationship, Kinktober, M/M, Mycroft Feels, Post-Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Romance, Sibling Incest, Smut, Supernatural Elements, Vamp!lock, Vampires, Worldbuilding, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-07 15:50:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 51,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26910178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlytherinsDragon/pseuds/SlytherinsDragon
Summary: Years after Sherlock's leap off Bart's, he has vanished. Mycroft spots his brother from afar engaging in some questionable activities and finds himself thrown into a world the likes of which he has never imagined.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Sherlock Holmes
Series: Holmescest Works [14]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1745683
Comments: 99
Kudos: 157





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LadyGlinda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/gifts).



> This is one of the ideas I toyed with in my early holmescest writing days. I have a large chunk of it written, and will try and post weekly.  
> It's October. I feel like writing something that suits the month.  
> I do apologize for procrastinating on my other works, but the muse does what it wants.  
> Enjoy!
> 
> And thanks to LadyGlinda for all her encouragement <3

It’s a cool night. 

A late November breeze blows through the alleyway, sending up a swirl of debris and litter. 

With a corner of a space-blue shirt twinkling with stars tucked into a pair of ripped and faded jeans and a leather jacket, Mycroft lights a fag. 

An anxiety he hasn’t known in a long while flutters within him. God. He wishes he was home right now. But no, he is in this disreputable alleyway. There are prostitutes working the corners and eager Saturday night clubbers queuing up to enter the latest haute club London has to offer just a few metres where he stands. Next to the rubbish bins. 

He inhales. 

Exhales. 

He tries to look casual, but his eyes are scanning his surroundings. Looking for someone. Someone that looks like his brother. 

He tries not to think too hard these days. He has no idea where Sherlock is anymore. It has been more than three years since Sherlock had made his fateful leap from the top of Bart’s. Mycroft had lost track of him in the outskirts of Belgrade. With increasing dread, he had sent his agents to investigate. He himself had started to brush up on his Serbian in the hopes of finding answers. But no, his agents found nothing but rubble where Moriarty’s final cell had congregated. Everything had been burnt to cinders. The flames so hot, it had melted virtually everything in its path. 

He had grieved. 

However, approximately a month ago, he had been idly playing around with the CCTV network near Baker Street. Reminiscing. Browning the footage of cameras that had once captured his brother’s actions. Walking down memory lane. Airing his innumerable regrets. And then… he had seen a flash. Something about it had seemed familiar, so he had taken a still from the footage and blown it up. It hadn’t been very clear, but Mycroft had the gut feeling that this blur had been his brother. 

So, he set two of his trusted agents on the seemingly futile task of surveying London’s CCTV networks, looking for his brother. And they found evidence. Finding someone who looks like Sherlock walking down London’s streets at various times of the day. Usually in the evening or early morning. Some near Baker Street, although Mycroft is sure Sherlock had never stepped foot in his flat (strange!), some in seedy spots of London and nightclubs! His brother had been spotted at all the hip and trendy nightclubs. Usually on the weekends. 

Mycroft had made an educated guess and chose the latest nightclub à la mode to do his own reconnaissance. Everything is just bloody bizarre. If his brother is in London, why hadn’t he reached out? Why has he not returned to his flat? What’s with this sudden interest in clubbing? Sherlock had loved to dance, but that’s it! Oh and the drugs. But his brother hated mingling with the goldfish. Had no interest in the matters of sex. It baffled him. 

God. It’s fucking cold. He feels like a fool, standing here in this casualwear. Mycroft hasn’t been in a club in a very long time. He brings the cig back up to his lips and blows more smoke into the cold air. He’s been here for at least thirty minutes. The girl working the street in front of the alleyway had disappeared. 

He peers out of the alleyway. No sign of Sherlock. Well then. Perhaps he ought to go in. It’s better than freezing his arse off. Pulling out his recently procured VIP card, he jumps the queue and is led in by an attendant. He declines to check his coat, and slips into the throng of people moving with the beat the next room over. 

For the love of god, it’s fucking loud in here. The strobe lights are in play. The room glows in different colours at different moments. He makes his way to the upstairs bar, where people are more reasonably spaced out. It is also a great place to survey his surroundings. Keeping to the shadows of the room, he tries to avoid drawing attention to himself. Someone asks him to dance, but he declines. His head is already starting to throb. 

He asks for an  _ Old-Fashioned _ and moves to a corner to sit. 

Then he sees him. Someone who looked like Sherlock to a tee. 

The man sits at where Mycroft would say is the best spot to watch the dance floor from their lofty position. There’s a glass of mulled wine in his pale hand. He is wearing an aubergine shirt, but unlike the old shirt, it is strategically ripped in areas. There is a pair of tight jeans studded with rhinestones. He looks casual, but Mycroft could tell that Sherlock(?) is scanning the area. The man does not sip his drink, preferring to hold it. He even brings it up to his nose and inhales it, closing his eyes as he does so. It’s all so peculiar(?)... 

A blond man comes up to Sherlock(?) a few minutes later. 

A broker. Someone who works hard, but plays even harder. Married to a woman, Mycroft could tell even if he had removed his wedding ring. Has a child. Has cash to blow. Literally. Cocaine habit. Mycroft is positive the man has a baggie or two in his pockets. Ah. But the man is here to hit on his brother(?). Acquire another notch in his bedpost. 

It reminds Mycroft of the set of people that Sherlock had used to hang out with when he had been ludicrously young at university. People like Mr. Wilkes. 

It’s all sleazy. 

God. This cannot possibly be Sherlock. The blond speaks a few easy words. Pickup lines. A few words hinting at his wealth. His brother looks charmed, and seems to fall for it hook, line and sinker. Mycroft wants to take him out of here, but his instincts tell him not to interfere. The man who had introduced himself as Paul (fake name or a middle name), extends his arm to Sherlock. His brother takes it, abandoning his drink and just before he disappears downstairs, Mycroft could see a quick change of expression on Sherlock’s face when Paul looks away from him for a brief moment. 

It is feral. The look of a predator. An ominous shiver runs down Mycroft’s spine. 

Sipping at his drink, he waits a few minutes, before he sees Sherlock again. He is dancing. The epitome of grace. His body is so close. Too bloody close to the blond. Their faces are almost touching. The man leans in to kiss Sherlock, and Mycroft could feel revulsion twist in his stomach. His brother allows the kiss, letting it linger. 

His hands rest on the broker’s shoulders, and sensually he slides them down. 

No. This isn’t Sherlock’s first time doing this. His moves are practiced. Knowing. They are grinding against each other now, exchanging kisses. God. Mycroft has never had such an urge to throttle another man. Paul’s movements grow languid. His eyes are fixated on Sherlock, as if mesmerized. Sherlock leans forward again, whispering something, and then they start walking out of the room. 

Mycroft puts his tumbler down and starts moving too. Going as quick as he could without attracting attention. It’s been years since he’s done his own bloody legwork, and he still doesn’t like it. But yet, he’s curious now. Sherlock is in control of this situation. Whatever it is. For what end? He wonders. He manages to slip out of the room. Shit. He’s lost them. They are nowhere to be seen. Mycroft moves to the gent’s instead. He goes to sit on the toilet. Taking out his phone, he taps into the CCTV network here. He examines the VIP rooms. The offices. But no, he finds them in the alleyway that Mycroft had been smoking a fag in approximately an hour ago. 

Conveniently, they are in perfect view of one of the cameras. They are making out. It’s nauseating, but Mycroft forces himself to watch. But, he’s never seen Sherlock so  _ sexual _ before. His brother’s head is moving downwards and Paul seems to fall back against the brick wall, in the throes of pleasure. But something seemed very wrong about this. This would not be Paul’s modus operandi. The psychology is all wrong. He seemed like someone who would want to dominate. His brother had reached the man’s groin, having unfastened Paul’s belt and dropped his trousers, revealing the man’s average-sized cock. Well. Not everyone could be as well-endowed as he is. But anyways, his brother engulfs the man’s cock in his mouth, taking the entire length at once with expert ease. 

Good god.

For shame, no condom. Paul is too out of it to thrust into Sherlock’s mouth, so his brother appears to be sucking furiously (his cheekbones jutting out like blades), and then very quickly the man seems to convulse as he reaches his climax. His brother appears to swallow everything, and when he lets go, Paul seems to lose all his strength and crumple in a heap on the ground. Then his brother moves. Mycroft watches as Sherlock frisks the man’s pockets, pockets a few things himself and then stands. He walks away casually. The cold doesn’t seem to faze him at all. 

Mycroft flushes the toilet, and hurries out to track his brother down. There’s a door that leads straight to the alleyway, so he pushes that open, walking into the same rundown place he had been at the beginning of this adventure. Paul is still a heap on the ground. He ignores the man for now and quickly runs toward the mouth of the alleyway, but it’s too late. His brother is nowhere to be found. 

Sighing, he returns back to the ‘scene of the crime’ and looks at the unconscious broker. Why did Sherlock take the man’s things? His brother had never stolen things before like this. And what the fuck did Sherlock do to the man? People don’t pass out like that when they are getting blown like that.. 

But god. Seeing his brother’s lips around the man’s cock. Even he’s never been fellated like that before. Fucking hell. He shakes his head. 

The man looks pale to Mycroft in this alleyway, but that could be the lights inside that had made him appear darker indoors. Aside from a few hickeys, there doesn’t seem to be anything wrong with the man. He’s breathing. His heart is beating. No lasting harm done. It probably isn’t a good idea to leave the man here, considering how bloody cold it is. 

Mycroft puts his gloves on and kneels down. He finds the man’s phone. Sherlock hadn’t taken that. Grimly, he unlocks the phone (a guess based on the smudges on the phone screen), and calls the one named ‘the old ball and chain’. 

Mycroft tuts, and leaves a message, before putting the phone back where he had found it.

* ** *

Mycroft takes a hot shower when he gets home, washing the grime of the evening off. He prepares for bed. The excursion had left him feeling rather beat. Whatever he just witnessed had felt unreal. Despite his confused thoughts, he falls asleep. 

He has a lie-in the next morning, as it is Sunday. The sun is streaming into his room, as he had forgotten to close the curtains the night before. When he looks up, he almost screams. 

There is a knife stabbed into his bedroom door. There is a sheet of paper affixed, written in expensive ink. 

What. The. Bloody. Fuck. Is. This? Mycroft hadn’t heard anyone come in. Hadn’t heard his security system being activated. He gets up, curious, and rips the paper off the knife. 

_ Mycroft. _

_ Let things lie. Forget about me. The less you know, the better. Trust me. Nothing good will come of this. Rest assured that Moriarty’s network is destroyed. Continue the lie that I am dead. It was a risk for me to even come here in the wee hours of the night. Not that I am in any danger, but I may have put you at risk. I won’t say anything more, but it’s something you would never have dreamed of. It’s certainly something I never dreamed of. _

There is no signature. 

Fucking hell. What has Sherlock gotten himself involved in now? Let things lie? Forget? 

What nonsense is little brother spouting? 

He gets ready for the day, before heading downstairs to go make himself a full-English breakfast as is his custom for Sunday late-mornings. As he eats, he uses his phone to check his security system. There is no sign of Sherlock. Even his front door camera hadn’t picked him up. Damn. How did he even get in? 

What to do? He wonders. 

* ** *

He goes to Baker Street in the afternoon. 

It has been months since he’s been here. His brother’s landlady greets him inside the hallway, looking frailer than when Mycroft had seen her last. They exchange trivialities and then Mycroft says, “I just want to go upstairs. To reminisce.” 

“Ah. I do that too. Poor darling.” Mrs. Hudson shakes her head, her eyes impossibly sad. She then looks up at him. “Will you… will you be paying the rent the coming year too?”

Mycroft nods. Sherlock should pay his own bloody rent if he’s here in London. But then again, he has no idea what is up with little brother... 

“Okay, thank you Mr. Holmes. It would be so hard…” 

He inclines his head politely. He does know. It would be giving up on Sherlock, he feels. To clear the flat upstairs of the things that had comprised his former life. Of course the landlady doesn’t know that Sherlock is still roaming these streets. But.. what has happened to Lock? 

He slowly trudges off to the stairs and mounts them. He slips the key into the door. The door opens with a creak and he steps in. Everything seems like it had always been. Minus Dr. Watson’s possessions. The doctor had left the flat six months after Sherlock had jumped, looking like a disaster on the CCTV cameras during that time. Now Mycroft understands that he is engaged to be married? To an ex-assassin masquerading as a nurse. 

It’s none of his business unless the safety of his brother is compromised. 

Going into the kitchen, he makes himself a cuppa with an old bag of English Breakfast. While the kettle is boiling, he pushes into Sherlock’s bedroom. Nothing has changed since he’s been here last. The untouched bed. The sock index. No one has been here except Mrs. Hudson to clean. 

On a whim, he climbs the stairs to Dr. Watson’s old room. There is months worth of dust on the stairs and landing. Mrs. Hudson clearly has not been up here since Dr. Watson had left. 

A strange tingly sensation shoots up his arm when he places his hand around the doorknob. The same type of queer sensation he had felt when he had seen the predatory look on Sherlock’s face just the day before. It’s a primitive response, Mycroft is sure. His body warning him to stay away, but he can not. He will find out what happened, even if it killed him. 

It’s locked. What the blazes? Mycroft goes back down the stairs and to Sherlock’s room. His brother possesses certain supplies that would prove handy in this situation. He finds them. A set of lockpicks. He heads back. Using his newly acquired tools, he picks the lock, feeling a trepidation build within him. His hand shakes uncharacteristically, but eventually he hears that satisfying click and he slowly opens the door. It is pitch dark inside. Mycroft takes his phone and shines a light into the space. Despite the rest of the flat being heated to a certain temperature, it is frigid in here. That sensation of wrongness intensifies but he swallows and steps in further. 

It seems normal. An old bed. Regular furniture. There is a mirror on the desk. A pair of scissors. Professional ones for cutting hair. A trimmer. Razor. Nail clippers. A stack of expensive cream paper and ballpoint pens. Mycroft opens the wardrobe and he finds clothes. Expensively tailored clothes, casual clothes… essentially clothes for all occasions in his brother’s measurements. Boxes of accessories. Even jewels. Hm… there’s a fridge in the room too. This is so eerie. Mycroft opens it. There is no light in the fridge, but he finds several pints of whole blood. Human blood. Hospital-grade. 

The word first strikes him here. 

_ Vampire. _

Ridiculous. He huffs to himself. They don’t exist. This is his brother. A man who is noted for keeping all sorts of body parts for various experiments of his devising after all. 

Mycroft stands up and shuts the door of the fridge. He then goes through the drawers. There are stacks of bills of various denominations and currencies. Gold bars. Holy fucking shit, Sherlock can pay for his own bloody rent. The contents of another cause Mycroft’s blood to boil. Baggies full of white powder, pills and vials. Syringes. Needles. Drugs. What the fuck, little brother?!? His fingers twitch to throw all this contraband away, but he resists. What is going on? And wait, how does his brother even get here, anyways? The dust is undisturbed on the stairs and landing. On the door too. The window? Mycroft steps to the window in question. There is a locking mechanism. It’s a long climb up.

Should he wait then? Confront his brother? He would close the door. He can’t lock it from the outside. But Sherlock would know that someone’s been here. Is this all a drug induced psychosis? Mycroft wonders. He walks out, shutting the door behind him. But that blood though… he can imagine Sherlock tearing one of the bags with sharp teeth and drinking it… No. It can’t be. Vampires aren’t real. 

Well. He will find out. 

He finishes making his cuppa and decides to order some takeaway. Japanese perhaps. One of Sherlock’s favourite cuisines. Mrs. Hudson had mentioned she had a bridge night with her girls tonight. It would be the perfect time. 

Settling down in Sherlock’s armchair, he waits. 

* ** *

He waits. And waits. He drinks more tea. Eats his chicken katsu with curry. The sun sets. He hears the sounds of Mrs. Hudson leaving at around eight. 

Still nothing. 

At around midnight, when Mycroft had been thinking of calling it for the day(?), a tremendous crashing noise comes from upstairs. 

What is going on? He cautiously stands up from Sherlock’s armchair. He can hear cursing. More noise, as if whoever is in there had thrown something in a fit of anger. Despair. Quietly he mounts the stairs, his hand slowly grasping the doorknob. That queer sensation warning of danger has never been so strong in his body, but the evident distress of Sherlock(?) is enough to overcome it. 

He opens the door.

*** ** ***

The room is a mess. In the darkness, Mycroft could tell that the desk had been flipped over, its contents all over the floor. He reaches for the light switch and turns on the light. His brother is sitting on the floor, surrounded by drug paraphernalia. Fear clenches at his belly. But his brother looks up at him. His eyes are clear. There is something otherworldly about those blue-green-grey irises. Something fragile. Glass-like. Beautiful though. His skin however is somewhat bronzed. Like he’s been at a beach. 

Not a vampire. Mycroft thinks. Not high either. 

Then Sherlock laughs. And laughs. 

It’s surprisingly bitter.

“I told you to let me be.” He cocks his head toward Mycroft. “Why didn’t you listen?” 

“Why would I? It’s clear that you need help  –”

More laughter. “Good god. You know nothing, Mycroft. I am beyond help.” Sherlock jumps to his feet in the blink of the eye. It’s too quick to be human. “No. This is not drugs. I only wish it were. Go.” His voice suddenly becomes gentler. “Go Mycie. Forget about this. About me.” He has never seen Sherlock so sad before. “Live a happy life. Don’t take it for granted.” 

“I can’t. Please tell me how to help you.”

“Nothing. I should have done it. Coward. Me. Should have ended it after Belgrade. Should have never come back to London  –”

“What are you talking about?” Mycroft is alarmed. 

“Do I even look human to you? You? Master of deductions? The smarter one? If you won’t bloody leave without an explanation, then deduce it yourself. Go on then. Touch me if you have to.” 

Sherlock looks human. Curls longer than he had worn them before jumping off Bart’s. Those cheekbones. His beautifully formed lips. God. Images of Sherlock making out with that man come to mind and he wants to throw up. Those same lips quirk into a small smile, as if Sherlock had known what had crossed his mind. His skin looks more golden than Mycroft had remembered the day before. Aren’t vampires pale? But then, there is the glass-like appearance of Sherlock’s eyes. Subtle, but now that Mycroft’s observed it  – people don’t look like that. 

“Could you… uh… show me your teeth?”

Sherlock smiles, baring his teeth. They looked like human teeth. And then suddenly, the incisors seem to extend and sharpen  – revealing fangs and Mycroft almost tumbles backward in shock. Holy fucking hell. The fangs disappear almost immediately, making Mycroft think for a moment that it had been a figment of his overactive imagination, but Sherlock simply shakes his head. Taking his brother’s offer, Mycroft takes his hand. He drops it almost immediately. It’s like… ice. 

“I haven’t drank tonight, brother.” Sherlock stands up. “You are a fool you know. Had I been a normal vampire, you probably might be dead by now. No control. I knew you were here. Waiting for me. I could have gone somewhere else. But I wanted to see you. I thought I could do my usual rituals without arousing your curiosity, but alas  – temptation…”

“The drugs…”

“I just want to feel something. Human. Fuck it.” Sherlock swears. “It never works. As soon as the drugs hit my bloodstream, they get inactivated immediately. It makes me angry every time. I am a monster, Myrcroft. I don’t need to drink for weeks on end. But I go out every night. And do you know why? Because ironically the only time I feel human is when I am taking someone’s else’s life. Do you know?” Sherlock suddenly leans forward, practically in Mycroft’s face. “That when a vampire is made in this modern day and age, they are taught to drink just enough to leave a person alive. In the old days, ordinary people go missing and no one gives a fuck.    
The greatest pleasure for a vampire  – even greater than orgasm – is when you drink till the end. When you feel the person’s heart stop. If a newly made modern vampire cannot resist, they are killed. Sent out into the sun. Because our existence must remain a secret. It’s the sacred rule.” He then frowns. “You know too much now, Mycroft.” His tone is ominous. 

“Are you going to kill me?” Mycroft is suddenly on edge. Fuck. He should have prepared a cross or garlic or something! He had all that time downstairs. 

“Don’t be a fool. Those are old wives' tales. The only way you can get rid of a vampire is the sun and fire. And no, Mycroft. I will not kill you. But others might. I’ve broken so many rules honoured internationally by vampires.” 

Mycroft smiles somewhat at this. He’s too much in shock to process much of anything right now. The adrenaline is coursing through his veins, making his heart race. 

“You. Setting the fire in Belgrade to destroy the last of Moriarty’s network. We aren’t supposed to meddle in human affairs. There are other offences that I have committed. By rights, they should destroy me. But they won’t. I am too powerful. I can kill most of them if I wanted to with a single look. They fear me. Loathe me. Envy me. I sense their eyes following me from afar when I roam the streets of London during the night. I wake up early every evening to catch the sunset. I let the sun’s dying rays touch me. It’s why my skin looks tanned. I am alone. Mycroft. I am shunned by my kind. I refused to stay with my Maker who wanted me to be his lover. It’s why he Turned me you know. I looked like a man he had loved.” Sherlock says bitterly. “Back from the days of Ancient Athens. When he had still been alive.”

“That surely can’t be the only reason.” Mycroft looks at his brother. 

“No. But it was one of them. He had predictably fallen in love with me from afar.” Sherlock sighs. 

“But wait, if the other vampires follow you –”

“Yes, I am sure they know about you by now.” Sherlock’s face takes on a pained expression. “That’s why I told you to stay away. Then that’s that. I will leave London tomorrow. I will send a message to the rest. To leave you alone. And I will end it. I will go out into the sun in the Sahara –”

“No!” Mycroft cannot allow this. He doesn’t care if Sherlock is a member of the undead. “That’s flawed thinking. I already know about them, so why would they –”

“I can erase your memories, big brother. It’s part of the arsenal of chemicals we can release when we drink from a human. There’s chemicals for pleasure, sedation and memory. And brother, I’ve been wanting to end it before I become too hard to kill. There’s nothing for me here. I am a monster. I am lonely. I can, like the rest of the vampires living among us, conjure up a stupid rationale for our existence. But at the end of the day, we are parasites. This is not how I wanted to live my life –”

“Lock. No.” Mycroft slowly puts his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, trying not to flinch at how cold he is to the touch. “Don’t do this. You aren’t alone. You have me. You always did.” 

He lets his fingers slide into his brother’s curls. Soft, silky – feeling unnaturally fragile in his fingers. His brother’s body, aside from feeling cold, is hard. Like marble. Slowly, he leans forward and kisses Sherlock’s cheek. 

Sherlock looks at him incredulously. 

He then turns away, and Mycroft realizes that his brother is crying. The tears aren’t clear though. 

They are drops of blood.

“You will die someday, Mycroft. It’s the way of all living things.” Sherlock whispers minutes later. 

“Then Turn me.” Mycroft says firmly. 

“No. I can’t do this to you. Unnegotiable.”

“Sherlock…” 

“No. Absolutely not. I promised myself that I won’t perpetuate this nonsense.”

“Lock…” 

“No.” 

A long silence falls. Mycroft looks at his brother, who is sitting unnaturally still. Vampires don’t have to breathe to live, do they? 

No. 

Still, despite his proclamations that he is a monster, Mycroft finds himself drawn to him. He had always been drawn to little brother in one way or another. His brother is what, thirty-five? Young. Still idealistic in many ways. Naively so at times. And, Lock has always been attached to the goldfish. John Watson. Greg Lestrade. Martha Hudson. No wonder he’s having a crisis. Of humanity. 

The only person that Mycroft had ever cared for is sitting in front of him now. Besides, they wouldn’t be immortal in the long run anyways. One day the sun will reach the end of its life expectancy, engulf the Earth and destroy them all. 

“You should go.” Sherlock says. “Forget about this nonsense, brother. It will all be a bad dream, tomorrow.”

“No.” 

“Mycroft…”

“No.”

“Why are you so obstinate about this?”

“Kettle meet pot.” But then Mycroft shifts, coming closer to his brother. He feels the urge to offer something. Anything. “Drink from me then.”

“No.” Sherlock crosses his arms.

“You haven’t today.”

“I don’t need to drink everyday. I only do to look human. Feel human.” 

“You are still in denial.”

“Sometimes. I also regress to the bargaining stage at times. Anger. Depression.”

“Drink, brother mine.”

“It’s an act of extreme intimacy. If you have any secrets, I will know them all eventually. No.” Sherlock shakes his head, but Mycroft could see his resolve crumbling. “This is also highly unconventional, brother. It’s frowned upon to keep drinking from the same human multiple times. To form, if you will, a relationship.” 

“I bet vampires can still fall in love.” Mycroft muses. “With humans.”

“We fall in love with every human we drink from.” Sherlock’s lips curve gently. “Especially the ones we drink till the last drop.” 

“You’ve killed. As a vampire that is.”

“Of course. I was careful. Picked people that no one will care about. I haven’t done so since I’ve been back, but the temptation is there. My…”

Mycroft bares his neck. Like he’s seen drawings from vampire-themed erotica that he had stumbled upon while dealing with some of the scandals of the Royal family. 

Sherlock looks like he’s about to convulse in a fit of laughter. 

“Oh dear. I didn’t know you had vampiric fantasies, brother dear.”

“Trying to convince you that your life is worth living, little brother. You can even kiss me if you want, if that’s how you usually take your prey.”

There is a sardonic quirk of Sherlock’s eyebrow. “You are mocking me, Mycroft.”

“Or…” Mycroft’s eyes glance downward.

“Really, brother? For shame!” Sherlock shakes his head in mock dismay. “Are you really this depraved?” He smirks, knowing very well that Mycroft had seen him fellate that man. “But no, I prefer the carotid. Arterial blood. Readily exposed in most people. Sometimes I like a bit of cum mixed with blood –”

“Well, if you want to know if I am mocking you, have a drink.”

“You drive a hard bargain.” 

“Don’t you want to know the truth of what I think of you, little brother?”

“That I am a brat? Dragging you into shit that you shouldn’t ever have been in? If it’s not drugs, it’s the undead. Ah. Brother. You should be satisfied with ruling the mortal world –”

“I do have work tomorrow.” Mycroft looks pointedly at a clock hanging in the room. “It’s Monday. In case you haven’t noticed. And I am not worried about the other vampires. If you are as scary as you say you are, they wouldn’t dare touch –”

“A single precious hair of yours, Mycroft?” Amusement dances in Sherlock’s eyes. “That is true.” He says quietly after a minute. “Interactions between vampires and humans never end well. What is it that you used to say, brother mine? All lives end. All hearts are broken –”

“A futility, yes? But life is futile is it not? We are born. We grow up. We work. Some of us may procreate. We die. It’s up to us to find meaning, is it not? You say you fall in love with every human you’ve ever drank from. But it's a temporary kind of love, isn’t it? A… perhaps what is called a ‘in the moment’ thing.” 

“What are you trying to get at, brother?” Sherlock crawls close to him. Mycroft can feel the coldness of his flesh without touching him. 

“I am just saying that all things end. But perhaps, maybe I would like the flame to burn a little more brightly –”

“I am a vampire, Mycroft. The shadows are where I reside. I ply my trade in dark corners and in dilapidated alleyways. If you are looking for a midlife crisis, I don’t recommend this one. I suggest you look elsewhere.”

“Aren’t you at all curious? To see what it would be like to drink someone who cares about you, Lock?” Mycroft offers once more. 

Sherlock’s hand reaches for him. His fingers, so long and masculine, trace the curve of his jaw. It’s cold, but Mycroft doesn’t flinch. He changes the topic. “It’s fascinating. You know. To see your stubble grow over the last hour or so.”

“Yours doesn’t?” 

“Every night, when I wake – the hair, the nails of the vampiric transport resets itself to the state of which I was when I was last alive. My hair was on the long side when I was Turned, so I cut it every day. You are alive, Mycroft. Beautifully so. Healthy too, for a man in his forties. You have decades ahead of you.”

Sherlock is so close that he’s practically sniffing at Mycroft’s neck. Like a seasoned connoisseur of wine. He almost looks like he’s in a trance. Suddenly Mycroft grabs Sherlock’s arm.

“If you drink, you will not ‘end’ it. Understand?”

* ** *

Sherlock doesn’t speak. His nose is almost touching Mycroft’s neck, just over the carotid sheath. Mycroft shivers for reasons unrelated to the coldness of Sherlock’s undead flesh. 

“Your heart is racing.” Sherlock observes. “It tastes better when you are relaxed. Hm. Maybe this will help.” He gets up from the bed. Dr. Watson’s old bed. And heads for the fridge. He opens it and pulls out a bag of blood. With his fang, he opens it and drains it. Wrinkling his face, he tosses the bag in the bin. 

With the blood in his body, Sherlock looks vibrant. The planes of his face seem to soften. He looks fuller. There’s even a blush colouring his cheeks. Slowly, he walks toward the bed and vaults onto it – in the childish fashion he had always done as a child. 

He straddles Mycroft’s thighs. 

Sherlock is fascinated, examining him in ways that Mycroft could not comprehend. It’s a little unnerving to be on this side of such extensive scrutiny, so he returns the favour. Even though the blood had been cold in the fridge, the vampiric flesh is warmer to the touch, even softer. It had taken on a more human like quality. Sherlock lets Mycroft touch him. So he does, exploring the line of his smooth jaw, the cheekbones and running his finger along the tops of Sherlock’s seemingly innocent looking teeth. 

“This is certainly a first.” Sherlock remarks. The pad of his finger rubs along the route of Mycroft’s carotid. “It’s not often my prey comes to me, brother. Yet. Here you are. Perhaps the smartest man in the world –”

“Maybe the most idiotic when I wake up tomorrow.” Mycroft says self-mockingly.

“Hm. Perhaps.” Sherlock hums. “It’s not too late, brother. You can walk away if you wish. Back into the sunshine. Normality.” 

“I can never forget about you, Lock. I think about you everyday. I mourned you know, when I found out what happened to the Serbian cell. Thought you didn’t make it out.” 

“Don’t cry for the undead, Mycroft. It’s unbecoming.” 

“Hmph.” Mycroft huffs, but he tries to put a stop to the tear threatening to escape. 

His brother kisses his neck. His cool lips suck at tender skin. The teeth lightly rake across his skin. It ought to be disconcerting that a vampire is literally playing with his neck like this, but it isn’t. He feels relaxed. Comfortable. A vampire’s charm. Or perhaps Sherlock’s. His one weakness. Before sharp teeth puncture into him, he could almost hear the warning in his mind from Sherlock. That if he wants to end this. He can. But, no – he’s too far in. 

It hurts, when the fangs initially slide in.  _ No sedative. No anesthetic.  _ Somehow Sherlock is projecting these thoughts in his head. But then something indescribable seems to overtake his system. God. This is bliss. Whatever his brother is injecting into him, it’s causing him to float on a cloud. Euphoria in its purest form. People would pay for this. Mycroft thinks. A mutually beneficial transaction. Then, he’s having an out-of-body experience. He could see himself. His transport slumped against his brother. And then, suddenly as it had begun – it all stops. 

Sherlock genuinely looks pained. 

It is a long time before he speaks. Mycroft only stares at him, too dazed to string together any sort of coherent speech. 

“You…  _ love  _ me. The blood doesn’t lie.” He whispers disbelievingly. “I can’t do this, Mycroft. I can’t do this to you.”

“Lock…” Mycroft manages. “No. Don’t go.”  _ Don’t be noble.  _ He whispers with all the energy he could muster as Sherlock stands up from the bed. 

His brother rearranges the room. He lifts up the desk as if it weighed nothing and puts it back in its original position. Everything else on the floor goes back to its place. Sherlock is practically a blur at the inhuman speed he performs everything. Finally his brother turns to look at him. 

Both agony and sadness are inscribed on his face. 

“Goodbye, brother mine. Live well.” Sherlock unlocks the window and climbs into the darkness of the night. 


	2. Chapter 2

Days pass. 

That night when he had met Sherlock at Baker Street almost seemed like a fever dream. Hardly an hour passes by without Mycroft thinking about their encounter at least once. 

The sadness and despair in his brother’s eyes. Mycroft had seen Sherlock like this before. Back in the dark days of drug use. But now there was something else in Sherlock’s eyes. Resignation. A loss of hope. The surprise in his eyes when Mycroft had kissed his cheek. Those blood tears that had fallen. And how could he forget? The smooth glide of the fangs through his flesh, puncturing his carotid. Oh. The pleasure that followed. It had been unlike anything Mycroft had ever felt before in his life. This is why drug addicts become drug addicts. Mycroft thinks. Because all he just wants to do is to go find Sherlock and force those fangs back into his neck. 

When Mycroft had finally mustered the strength to climb out of Dr. Watson’s old bed, Sherlock had long disappeared into the night. Mycroft had closed the door and left Baker Street, feeling rather like a fool leaving a one-night stand. After work the day after, he had gone straight back for Baker Street, wanting confirmation that whatever insanity had happened the night before had been real. 

Disappointment had greeted him upstairs. 

Everything had disappeared. The clothes, the accessories, the jewels, the money and even the fridge full of blood. Sherlock had come back at some point and cleared everything out. The only evidence he had were the wrinkles and depressions on the quilt of the bed, where Mycroft had been lying on the night before. 

All Mycroft really had left of that surreal night were memories. 

Vampires. They exist. Here. In London. Perhaps he needs to take some precautions? A flamethrower for his brolly? Matches. A device like those lightsabers that children and sometimes grown adults like to wave about? Concentrated plasma? Lasers? Ultraviolet bombs? He would have to make these tools himself as no one would believe him that vampires are real.

He sighs as Anthea sends him a text, telling him that his late evening meeting with the Chancellor of the Exchequer had been canceled. No reason had been given. That lazy sod! 

There’s nothing for Mycroft to do here in his office. Or rather there is nothing he wants to do. Standing up, he grabs his things and leaves, nodding to Anthea as he passes her. She’s pulling a late nighter. 

He will walk then. 

It’s an uncharacteristically nice December evening. Petrichor lingers in the air from an early afternoon shower. The sun is setting. Vampire’s delight. Would his brother be up now? Taking in the rays of the falling sun? Doing the vampire’s equivalent of sunbathing? 

Again, he sees Sherlock’s face in his mind. The despair. The sadness. The longing. For some form of human connection. The way Sherlock had abruptly stopped his drink, pulling his fangs quickly away from Mycroft’s neck – abruptly ending the most divine moment of his life. The surprisingly tender way the words had fallen. _ You love me.  _ Sherlock had said. But that is true, is it not? He’s always loved his brother. From the day a tiny bundle of squalling Sherlock had been placed into his wobbly and uncertain seven-year-old arms. 

But. Sherlock would have known that, right? 

Of brotherly sentiment. 

The thought hits him then and now. Like bolt out of the blue.

Oh god. Did he mean...? 

Fuck. Sherlock would have no reason to lie to him. He had known before Mycroft had known.  _ Blood doesn’t lie.  _ Sherlock had said right after. That’s the reason why Sherlock had left. Little brother hadn’t been repulsed. Mycroft is sure. Unbrotherly feelings are probably the last item on the list of how fucked-up this entire situation is. 

Mycroft doesn’t do pubs, but he finds himself stepping into one. There’s homey decor and it is teeming with regulars. He sits at the bar and asks for some scotch on the rocks. He doesn’t even know what to think. He has no way of communicating with his brother. He is certain Sherlock had not gone into the Sahara to ‘end it’. His brother would keep his promises. 

Some nights, he feels as if someone is watching him. Sherlock perhaps. Or worse, some other vampiric entities that his brother had alluded to. 

Because Mycroft knows. The secrets of the undead. They would kill him. Of this, he is certain. 

That odd feeling is back. A prickling sensation sends chills straight down his spine. 

Sherlock. He thinks. 

At least, he hopes. 

He drains two tumblerfuls of scotch, feeling a little lightheaded. Perhaps not the best idea, but it is what he needs. While he fumbles in his pocket for a few bills to pay his tab from his wallet, he finds a lighter. He hasn’t smoked since that night he had met Sherlock. 

What was smoking compared to the pleasure that a vampire could give him? 

Sherlock had mentioned that he is shunned by his kind. Implication: vampires can hang about in groups. There is no way he could fend off more than one vampire with his lighter. They are faster than him. Stronger. He remembers how easily Sherlock had lifted the desk. Shit. The odds are not good. Hopefully he’s just being paranoid. 

He leaves. 

The sensation only gets stronger. He avoids the alleyways, choosing streets that are brightly lit and have people walking down them. He hails a cab partway through, unable to shake the unease. Uneventfully the cabbie pulls up to his house, and he walks to the front door. He disarms the alarm and opens the door. Fuck. He remembers Sherlock had paid a visit to his place a while ago. What’s stopping other vampires from paying an unwelcome visit? God. He has never felt so unsafe. He picks up a few antique candles that he has on his foyer table. 

And then, he catches sight of  _ them. _

Sitting on his couch and armchairs in the living room. Their faces are gaunt and pale. None of them have indulged in blood before coming here. They are casually chatting while playing a round of cards, having helped themselves to Mycroft’s tea. 

It is a scene straight out of a gothic novel. None of them drink. Like Sherlock, they hold their mugs in hand, preferring to savour the heat and the aroma of the beverage. It is hateful. Like they’ve already written off Mycroft’s ability to fight them off. He takes the lighter from his jacket, and quickly lights the two of the longer candles. It’s better than going in unarmed. It’s also a shame that there isn’t anything particularly flammable in his living room.

“We’ve been waiting for you.” One of them stands. The tallest one who is dressed in an old-fashioned suit that is a size too large for him. “Sit. And for god’s sake, put those candles down before you hurt yourself.” 

“I think not. You three are uninvited guests. And also. The undead.” Mycroft has nothing to lose. One does not negotiate in these situations. He could bluff his way out. Say that Sherlock is coming. “I think I am at a disadvantage, am I not?” 

“He has a point, Ed. Let him keep his candles.” Another one chimes in. 

“Very well. We have a problem. With you.” The ringleader speaks, stroking his mustache. “You know about us. You have experienced the vampire’s kiss. Now, don’t look at me like that – all human thoughts are transparent to us. Doesn’t matter how smart you are. How rich you are. By the rules of London’s largest coven, you should be rightfully dead.”

“So…” Mycroft keeps his voice utterly unaffected, even though he knows the odds are not good. “You lot are here to kill me. But yet, you haven’t. So that must mean that I have something that you want. Something that you can only get from me… alive.” And suddenly he knows the answer. They need him to get at Sherlock. Whose return had likely disrupted the carefully constructed hierarchy that had existed in London. They want him gone from this world. What did Sherlock say? That he could kill most of these vampires with one look? But then again, it’s a lose-lose situation, is it not? They could take him, force Sherlock to flee or kill himself, and then they would kill him. Maybe forcefully Turn him against his will. They had waited to make sure that Sherlock had left his life for good. But Sherlock and he would always be intertwined and somehow despite the transparency of human thought, the fools had missed out on the truth. Turning made someone stronger and faster, but certainly not smarter! He says firmly. “No. Absolutely not.” 

“So loyal. It is touching. All for what, a vampire’s kiss?”

The other two vampires stand as well. They all look toward him, their sunken eyes giving Mycroft the creeps. Unlike Sherlock, they all have a withered, rather unhealthy look upon them. They look more like the undead Mycroft had imagined. These creatures must need blood at a greater frequency than Sherlock does. Daily. A different breed of vampire? Mycroft wonders. He didn’t exactly have the opportunity to figure out the mechanics of Turning during his one night with his own vampire. But still these creatures could easily outrun him. 

He walks back slowly, putting both candles in one hand. With the other, he grabs a decorative bottle of spirit from a small display table against the wall, keeping his movement out of view from the vampires. The vampires advance, seemingly fixated on Mycroft’s neck. He keeps walking backwards, and just as the vampires pounce, he smashes the expensive bottle on the floor in front of him, drops one of the candles – and suddenly there is a whoosh of fire as the alcohol ignites. He holds the other candle in a fencing stance. 

There is an unholy scream and someone hisses. “Now you’ve done it. Get him!” 

Mycroft’s heart is pounding vigorously beneath his ribcage. 

This is the end. He thinks. 

Sherlock! 

But the hellish eardrum-shattering screams don’t end. And they aren’t issuing from his throat. Two of the vampires had seemingly burst into fire. Fire so hot that it is completely blue. The other vampire who had stepped onto Mycroft’s own clumsily made fire had stumbled back into the living room, looking absolutely terrified. 

What’s going on? This isn’t the result of his clumsy attack but..

Sherlock.

His brother strides casually on the tiles of the foyer. Simple gray shirt, the top buttons left open. A pair of elegantly tailored trousers that emphasized his bum which is still magnificent. He is barefoot. Truly a sight for sore eyes. He walks past his disintegrated brethren with a complete air of disinterest and turns his attention to the lone survivor. He grabs the man by his fancy shirt collar and pulls him in. 

“What is your name?” He snarls, looking like the monster he had claimed to be. 

“A-a-amir.” The man is practically crying. If vampires pissed at all, Mycroft would have sworn that he had just wet his pants and trousers. 

“Well Amir, you have been the lucky chosen recipient of my mercy. The next time I see you, I will not be so kind. You will tell everyone that this human –” Sherlock briefly looks toward Mycroft before turning back. “Is not to be disturbed. If I catch any of you fools even looking at him the wrong way, I will find every single member of your coven and destroy them. Be kind and pass the word. Understand? Same goes for everyone else.”

“Yes.” The vampire nods, his curls bouncing.

“Now get your miserable hide out of my sight.” Sherlock releases the vampire, letting him slump to the floor. “Now.”

“Yes sir. Thank you sir.” The vampire didn’t need telling twice. He is gone in a blink of Mycroft’s eye – the front door slamming loudly behind him. 

Sherlock’s face softens when he finally focuses on him. He ignores the two piles of ashes on the floor as he walks over. The flames had gone out at some point.

“Are you hurt?” 

Mycroft shakes his head. “No. Just unnerved. Frightened.” 

“This is all my bloody fault. Should have known they would have been stupid enough to try something. Idiots. The lot of them. They shan’t bother you anymore. Every vampire in London will know by sunrise about their fates.”

“You’ve been watching.” Mycroft changes the topic. It feels nice. For once that little brother is watching from afar. 

“I always do. I was terribly curious about what you would do to these idiots –”

“So, you let me handle them on my own?” Mycroft looks at Sherlock with some indignation.

“Just waiting for the right time to step in. You were never in any real danger at all. I do have to say that a flamethrower brolly sounds like a most intriguing invention.”

“But you set them on fire?” 

“Vampiric blood, if you are powerful enough, is a powerful combustion catalyst. I can torch vampires that are weaker than me. Unfortunately or rather fortunately, I am not powerful enough yet to start a truly spontaneous fire.” 

“Mm. Hm.” Mycroft nods as if it all made sense. The physics of the undead is way beyond him.

Sherlock disappears into the kitchen and comes back with a broom and a pan. He squats down and sweeps the ashes into the pan. He tuts at the scorch marks on Mycroft’s floor. 

“Suppose you can’t make those disappear?” 

“Sorry Mycroft – you are out of luck.” 

“You better make it up to me then.” Mycroft crosses his arms. 

Those tiles would need to be replaced.

Sherlock looks intrigued. “Brother dear, are you trying to –”

“You left when I told you not to go.” Even Mycroft is surprised by how upset he sounds. 

“I am sorry, Mycroft. Really I truly am. I should have stayed with you. That night.” Sherlock actually looks repentant.

“Just toss them into the rubbish.” 

Mycroft looks pointedly at the pan, finding it rather unnerving that they are having a serious discussion about their messed-up relationship while Sherlock is holding vampire remnants so casually in his hand. 

Those ashes had wanted to kill him just minutes ago!

Sherlock turns around and quickly obeys.

* ** * 

“What do you want from me, brother mine?” Sherlock asks, his eyes serious.

His brother had partaken tonight. There is a rosy colouration to his face. He could easily pass as a regular human being unlike those three beings that had sat in his living room earlier. 

Mycroft is quite shaken. He will have to buy a new couch and armchairs, in addition to repairing the burn marks on his floor. He wouldn’t be able to sit on them without recalling this ghastly event. Maybe a new coffee table and a rug. He may never feel comfortable in his house again. The latest technologies in home security appear to be thwarted easily by these members of the undead.

They might call him the ‘Iceman’ but Mycroft is still human at the end of the day. Even though Sherlock had said he was never in any danger, he had genuinely thought that it had been the end.

“Oh Mycie. It’s okay. You are safe now.” Sherlock says soothingly. He then chuckles lightly. “Well, as safe as you can be with a vampire next to you. You should eat. Man does not subsist on scotch alone.” His brother stands up from the chair and goes to rummage the fridge. “Good god, to think that you used to deplore over the state of my fridge! There’s hardly anything edible in here…”

“Lock, please. Don’t go.” Mycroft could deduce that his brother wanted to leave the house to acquire food. “There’s takeaway menus on the counter. Order whatever.” 

Sherlock opens his mouth seemingly to argue, but he shuts it again. He picks up the stack of menus and leafs through them quickly. “Phone?” He asks.

“You don’t have one?”

“No. Vampires have a tendency to be rather old-fashioned. But, brother – phones are all too trackable these days. Not exactly something I would want on my person.” Sherlock takes the cell from Mycroft’s hand.

Mycroft shivers when Sherlock’s hand accidentally touches him. It’s not that the limb is cold, but it’s warm. Sherlock really had a feast before coming here. A wave of jealousy courses through him as he hears Sherlock unlock his phone, dial the number and place his order for some comfort Cantonese-styled food. Some undeserving sod had been privileged to feel those fangs against their skin. To feel that – 

His brother smiles at him knowingly. He lets an incisor scrape against his bottom lip – and for just a second, Mycroft could see it turn into a fang. God. Such a bloody tease.

“Come brother, you will feel better after a shower. And a change of clothing.”

“Dun wanna.” He feels rather petulant.

Sherlock sighs. Mycroft yelps in protest when firm arms wrap around his torso and easily lifts him up from his chair. His brother carries him like a bride to the foyer, up the stairs and to his bedroom. He shoos Mycroft into the loo. 

Mycroft tries to get himself together when the door closes between them. He even checks the obscured spaces to ensure that there’s no one hiding, waiting to surprise him. He’s never felt so pitiful in his life. He removes his suit, stripping down to his shirt and trousers. He opts to shave first, before stumbling into the shower. He takes a hot one, trying not to think. 

At some point, the door creaks open – startling him, but it is only Lock bringing him a change of clothes. It’s nice though. To see that Sherlock cares for him. He would have died for such attention from his little brother before his leap off Bart’s. 

The roles are reversed now. 

He takes a long shower. The workday itself had been a tough one. Fraught with difficult negotiations with the Germans. Careful manipulation of the Cabinet. There hasn’t been a day where they hadn’t put a bloody foot wrong in the last week. How could people be so stupidly greedy? 

And. All this could have ended tonight. 

He shivers, despite the hot water cascading down on his body. 

There is a knock at the door at some point.

“Yes?” Mycroft calls out.

“Have you drowned, brother mine? You are taking forever.” 

“I am getting out now.” Mycroft shuts the water off.

He quickly steps out and grabs his towel, drying himself off. He puts on his clothes. His brother had brought him a cashmere turtleneck and a pair of warm pyjama bottoms. Comfortable choices. He puts them on. He checks himself out in the mirror as he deals with his hair, wanting to look good(?) for his brother. God. His mind is going. Going places where humans probably shouldn’t. 

But good fucking lord. His brother had looked so ridiculously hot, putting the fear of God(?) or should he say fear of Sherlock into that lone vampire that had survived his wrath. Sherlock had genuinely been really pissed off. 

Would his vampiric brother even want him like this? He had never felt so helpless before as a human being. So outmatched physically by these beings. Whom he hadn’t even been aware of their existence on this planet since the last month.

“My? Mycroft? Mycie? You okay?” 

“Yes, Sherlock. I am done.” He sighs, putting down the comb. 

He opens the door, seeing Sherlock waiting for him on one of his plush armchairs. Sherlock still has his phone in hand. Mycroft shrugs. What is a vampire going to do with state secrets anyways? 

“I laid out dinner for you downstairs.” Sherlock stands and walks over to him. 

Mycroft feels Sherlock take his hand in his own. It’s warm and comforting. Almost as soft as it had been when he had been alive. All these emotions start pouring forth. The weeks where he had thought Sherlock had been gone for good. His own confrontation of his own mortality. Coping with the knowledge that his brother is now a member of the undead. Hot tears prickle behind his eyelids and soon he finds himself in Sherlock’s arms and he’s crying, breaking down – hiding his face against Sherlock’s shoulder. He can’t quite make out the words his brother is saying to him, but he feels affection radiating from him. 

He has his cry. His brother gently wipes Mycroft’s tears away with his fingers and the back of his hand. The words come gently from his lips.

“It’s okay, Mycie. I won’t leave you. I promise. I will look after you.”

* ** *

Sherlock watches him as he eats his congee. Full of tasty seafood, preserved eggs and scallion. There is also an extravagant selection of dim sum. When Mycroft had come downstairs, Sherlock had already plated all the dishes, knowing that Mycroft hated eating out of takeaway boxes. His brother had spent time examining each dish with rapt interest, but none of it goes into his mouth. 

It’s unusual to see baby brother so… well still. But yet, it seems like the details – the weave of everyday life is intriguing to him. 

“I’ve got time.” Sherlock shrugs. “Unlimited time.”

That is true. Mycroft nods, before picking up the chopsticks to help himself to a fried cruller. He dips it in soy sauce before eating it. Nice and crispy, the way he likes it. 

“Do you miss it, eating?” He finds himself asking.

“Sometimes. I’ve eaten. Actually. On occasions. Things are more intense as a vampire. Our senses are sharpened. Food tastes different. For one. Our digestive systems are no longer as they had been when well – we were human. We get cramps. And no. We don’t have to use the loo. Not anymore. But... Brother mine. There is nothing more divine than blood. Fresh blood from a human source. For a vampire. For me at least. I’ve experimented.”

Mycroft finishes eating. Before he could get up and tidy – Sherlock is already up on his feet. Putting away leftovers, washing plates, bowls and cutlery and he even makes Mycroft a cup of chamomile tea. He does these things so quickly that Mycroft has a hard time keeping up. 

“No point in having you waste time by doing such trivialities, big brother.” Sherlock says softly once he comes back with his own cuppa. 

“It must be so hard. To do things slowly as a vampire. What we humans would perceive as normal speed.”

Sherlock smiles wryly. There is a tinge of sadness to it. “It was very hard at the beginning. Learning how to move again. Fledgeling vampires are all weak after they Turn.”

“You must tell me everything.”

“We have time.” Sherlock replies. “I take it that you want me to spend the night…”

“Of course. I would also –”

“Maybe. A sleeping vampire is not as vulnerable as you think they are, Mycroft. I usually sleep after sunrise. The latest I’ve ever stayed up was till noon. Those vampires – the ones that you saw earlier, they would be fleeing to their resting spots as soon as light starts creeping past the horizon.” Sherlock makes a dismissive noise, indicating his disdain.

“How come… you are so different?”

“Strong? It’s a long story.”

“I have time.” 

“I will tell you. But not now. Maybe in bits and pieces in the coming days.” Sherlock inhales his tea, looking content. “I am not ready to relive it. I was unhappy for most of it.”

“Of course. You were taken – against your will…”

Sherlock closes his eyes, looking physically pained. “Being Turned is pure agony. Knowing that you don’t have a say in it. It’s worse. He loved it when I fought him. I hated him. With every molecule of my being.” 

He goes quiet after this, reflecting to himself. Examining his old memories. 

It would be different for himself. Mycroft thinks. He wants to be with his brother. He has limited ties to the mortal world. His job aside. He has lived and seen plenty in his relatively privileged life that he had worked hard to build in his youth. And it seems to be like an adventure. He would do things differently instead of doing what Sherlock has been doing. Hanging about in his old stomping grounds. Reminiscing.

But he keeps his thoughts to himself, knowing that his brother would refute them all. Opportunities would rise in the future. Of that, he is certain. There is no hurry.

* ** *

Mycroft cups the face of his brother – gently exploring the shape of his jaw. His brother’s skin is warm and seemingly alive under his touch. This time, he presses his lips against his brother’s and Sherlock kisses him back after a moment. It is easily the sweetest kiss Mycroft has ever had. Their lips unhurriedly explore the other’s. He shivers when Sherlock’s incisor scrapes against his bottom lip. His brother chuckles. A dark rumble that sends lovely vibrations against his flesh. 

And he gasps when something sharp brushes against his lip – drawing a drop blood that Sherlock deliberately licks off. The nick heals immediately, and Sherlock smiles when Mycroft realizes that during the time when Sherlock had been making out with his marks, his brother had been puncturing them over and over again with his fangs. Drawing little bits of blood up at a time. 

A cat playing with its prey. 

“It’s what we call the little drink. Here and there. It’s why we like clubs. So many hot warm bodies. Do a little dance, be a little flirtatious – do some snogging and no one would mind if you accidentally slipped your fangs into their carotids once you’ve injected them with a bit of pleasure. Sometimes I leave a few hickeys deliberately. The prey would think they had a very good night the morning after. They probably did. Mind you. You can do this over and over again, if you have self-control and you don’t take too much from each mark. Of course, if one person faints due to anemia, most people would just think it’s due to too much drugs, alcohol – or heat. Nothing too harmful. It gets hot on those dance floors, Mycie.”

“They definitely did.” 

“You’ve thought about it, haven’t you? Having my teeth against yours? Hm?”

“Fuck – yes…” Mycroft’s words die when Sherlock brushes his lips against his mouth again. 

His brother knows how to bloody kiss, and just the idea of him practicing his trade on other people sends a wave of nauseating jealousy that courses through him. And when hasn’t he thought about it? Letting Sherlock have his way with him? Letting those fangs slip under his skin, sucking up all his blood – replacing it with pure nirvana. What sounds like a groan escapes from him when Sherlock’s dexterous tongue teases his lips, coaxes them to part and he slips in. Mm… Mycroft is already feeling heady with pleasure. 

They continue making out in this sensuous and unhurried manner. His brother doesn’t seem to be particularly rushed to reach Mycroft’s neck at any point, but then again, he had drunk earlier. Places that Mycroft hadn’t known were erogenous areas become known, especially when Sherlock had sucked the delicate curve of his ear and let his fangs graze it just a tad. The noise that had escaped him had been pure filth. 

Sherlock had smirked at that and Mycroft wonders if his brother has been giving him little infusions of that euphoric mixture as he has his way with him. But then again, who cares? He thinks as Sherlock’s teeth finally…  _ finally _ sink their way into his carotid. It’s hardly painful, just pure  _ heavenly(?) _ or rather  _ satanic(?)  _ bliss. Not that Mycroft believes in such entities. At this point, Mycroft’s hand is in Sherlock’s curls – they feel light, silky and even fluffy in his hands. Like a cloud. 

His brother pulls out all too soon, his lips kissing and sucking at the abused spot on his neck. 

“Thank you, brother mine.” Sherlock looks down at him, his beautiful irises shining at him. The colour of jewels, softened by Mycroft’s blood. Making them look even more human. “You taste divine.” 

He kisses again, letting his hands trail down to the bottom of Mycroft’s turtleneck. Mycroft lets him pull it off. Sherlock’s roaming hands are instantly exploring, marvelling at the fur. His brother feels so warm – almost hot against his flesh. His face flushed with blood. Instead of teeth now, there is a delicious hint of blunt nail against his skin. Mycroft’s belly, softened by years of desk work, but prevented from truly getting portly by a regimen consisting of a treadmill and a little strength training – receives its share of love from his brother. His lips kissing his way down to his navel; his hands tenderly caressing flab. 

Mycorft’s cock is ridiculously hard, even though Sherlock had taken a decent amount of blood. It pokes out of his pyjama bottoms, desperate for some sort of attention. And Sherlock laps at it. The glistening glans leaking drops of cum from its slit. His brother pulls down the bottoms a bit further, letting his prick finally spring free. Sherlock’s hand curls around its shaft, his finger pad rubbing along a prominent vein. He strokes, experimenting with both pressure and speed, until he optimizes both – and Mycroft is fighting not to shoot so soon. It’s too good. Too perfect. And just when his hip muscles are protesting, Sherlock engulfs his cock with his amazing mouth – and he spends instantly. Collapsing on the bed. Feeling like he’s had the best sex he’s ever had. 

Fucking fuck. Reduced to expletives. 

Sherlock laughs joyfully as he lets himself fall back on the bed, his eyes level with Mycroft’s. His tongue licks at his pink lips, and it’s so delightful. He helps Mycroft put his bottoms back, but he takes the turtleneck and flings it onto the adjacent nightstand.

“What about you?” 

Sherlock shakes his head. “No need. Blood is enough.”

“Can you even –”

“Sometimes. I’ve fucked people before. Maybe I would let you fuck me though. Mm… But for a vampire, the blood is everything. But Mycie – you can’t be my sole blood reservoir. I am a hedonist, I am always wanting it, even if I physically do not need it. And you seem more comfortable around me when I am actually fed…” 

“It takes time to get used to, brother dear. I don’t mind. But –”

“I know. Maybe I can go without. I don’t know. It’s an unusual situation, having a regular source. There are stories in the past about it. Tragic love stories between vampires and humans. We used to call these humans – thralls. The few that are lucky enough to know the vampire’s kiss again and again. Eventually most covens just banned these relations outright. But it’s not uncommon – you know, to have a vampire follow someone for days. Little affairs of the heart. It’s natural to fall in love once you know a human inside and out –”

“So do you know me – inside and out?” Mycroft asks, using his legs to wrap around Sherlock’s hips – trying to bring him closer. 

“I saw your day when I drank. The Prime Minister is intolerable. As is Lady Smallwood. And that fool of a cabinet minister. Anthea ordered you sandwiches. The highlight of your work day. Your favourite – egg salad on challah. You also loved the steak and roasted aubergines. You walked the streets after work. Watching the sunset. Wondering if I was out and about. Mm… you have enemies – Mycroft.”

Well, considering his intruders – 

“No, not those of the undead variety. That newly promoted assistant of yours. She’s working for someone else. Digging up dirt. Somehow it’s personal but not really personal. Dunno how else to put that for you, big brother mine.”

“I will look into that then.” Mycroft sighs. That assistant had been too good to be true. Ms. Efficiency. Quiet. No drama. Had a hobby of fostering cats and dogs. Volunteering at the local food bank on the weekends. Created a new filing system for their documentation. But then again, it’s usually the quiet ones. Anthea liked her. And she had always been a shrewd judge of character. Alas, she is fallible like everyone else.

“You should sleep, My. I will pack you lunch before I go.” Sherlock reaches over to gently touch Mycroft’s cheek. 

“You could stay here. During the day.” 

“Mm… my resting place is a secret.” Sherlock smiles. “It’s to protect other people and vampires, as well as me. More the former though. A few hours exposed in the sun won’t kill me. But you can kill other vampires like that. Follow them to their resting place. Set it on fire. Or open the windows. Some of them still favour coffins, so you can open them up. Usually they are very heavy though – the lids. Not for me. But for you.”

“Naturally.” Mycroft curls around his brother, feeling the weariness of the day descend upon him like a curtain. It had been a busy one. An adrenaline filled one that Sherlock had been more used to than he had back when he had been alive. He wonders if he will ever need these pieces of information that Sherlock had imparted to him. But then again, he had used some of what he had learned today. “Will you come tomorrow?”

“We’ll see. I can’t drink from you again. Need your body to replenish what you’ve lost. I took just enough for your body to register that it needs to make more cells.”

“You are only here for my blood?” Mycroft asks – half jokingly and half seriously.

“No, brother dear.” Sherlock presses a soothing kiss against his forehead. Short and sweet. “Sleep now.”

And Mycroft does. Almost immediately.

*** ** ***

“Penny for your thoughts?”

Anthea walks in with a tupperware full of lemon squares. Mycroft’s favourite treat.

Mycroft sighs, his hand resting at the spot where Sherlock had sunk his fangs into him the night before. He rubs at it and somehow it sends a tingling sensation down to his nether regions. Fuck. He could feel his cock fill just a bit, twitching under the layers of fine fabric he wears. 

Sherlock hadn’t  _ warned _ him about this! His brother had only bitten him on three different nights and he’s already bloody conditioned. To be fair, he had been addicted since the first kiss. He had seen Sherlock once more (yesterday) since that nasty day with those ghastly vampires, although his brother has clearly been coming to his house every day. Or rather… night. There would be a delicious packed lunch on his counter in the morning if he had to go to work. Some parts of his house would be cleaner than the night before. Sherlock had ripped out the scorched tiles and replaced them with new ones. He had even written suggestions for a new set of furniture for the living room which Mycroft has not set foot in since the incident. 

It’s stranger than fiction, having a vampiric housekeeper/lover of sorts. Because that’s what they are now – lovers? 

“I am rather full, Anthea.” He sits back on his leather seat. His brother had recreated those lovely egg salad sandwiches and had them accompanied with a crunchy sweet salad and a clear chicken-based soup. There had been a slice of sacher torte to go with it. Bakery bought, Mycroft had been sure. But oh, so scrumptious!

“I made them.” Anthea sighs. “I just don’t understand… sir…” She trails off.

Well she’s not the only one that has no idea what’s going on these days. 

Their assistant had brought Portugeuse tarts that she had baked herself the day before, and Mycroft had turned them down. Later, he had taken the leftovers when no one had been looking and sent them to the toxicology lab. He’s also sent a sample down to a chemical analysis lab just in case it’s a new substance that no one has heard of before. 

Now that he thinks about it, Ms. Stuart had been baking treats every day and everyone at the office had been snacking on them. Himself included. No one would ever suspect her. People refer to her as a ‘poor dear’ whose husband and children had passed away tragically years ago. She had stellar references. 

“My housekeeper started packing me lunch.”

“I bet.” Anthea smirks. “He any good in bed, sir?”

“A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell, Anthea.” 

Great. Now he has to deal with impertinence 24/7. Fan-fucking-tastic. “Now, why don’t you ask Ms. Stuart to rearrange the meeting minutes from 2012? I think there’s something critical in there about that arms agreement with Saudi Arabia in them.” 

“Sir?” Anthea looks confused. “I was thinking about walking her through the Pickering Plans.”

“Just do it, please.” Mycroft sighs.  _ And don’t let her see those plans! _

It’s something harmless for her to do while he conducts his little investigations. Anyways, it is starting to smell of someone he knows. If he waits a bit longer, he wouldn’t even have to conduct an investigation. Sometimes people are so frustratingly predictable regardless of their intelligence, but to be fair, he wouldn’t have known about this plot until what he expects happens. He will give it another week. Sherlock’s warning had given him some time to mitigate the damage. 

“Yes sir. Right away.” Anthea then sighs. “I wish you would trust me, sir.”

“Oh, I do. It’s just that our enemies have many guises, Anthea. Sometimes they look like the grandparents we wished we had.” He could deduce that Anthea had familial issues growing up.

His PA stands straighter. She releases a deeper sigh.  _ Message received. _ She nods. She walks to the door, and then she looks back. “Oh right, you also have a visitor, sir. Mr. Lestrade.”

“Please show him in.” 

“Yes sir.” She gives him a one-armed salute.

She leaves. A minute or so later, the familiar face of the silvering detective inspector makes an appearance. Mycroft hasn’t seen him in over half a year.

“Hello, Detective Inspector, how may I help you?”

Lestrade sits down on one of his wooden guest chairs. One cannot make the guests too comfortable or they will overstay their welcome. 

“I was wondering – if you would attend your brother’s memorial dinner? We will have it in the coming week. Molly is coming. As is Mrs. Hudson. I am working on John. His fiancée will help me. Mary. She’s a good lass.”

Mycroft lets his lips curl in an insincere smile. “I will have to look at my schedule. It’s been over three years, Detective Inspector.”

“He was your brother.”

“I know. Who lived life to the very edge.” Mycroft deliberately slumps forward, leaning his weight on his elbow. 

He doesn’t have to fake it. Sorrow. Sherlock is dead to humankind, after all. 

“Here’s my number. And the date, time and reservation. If you wish to attend, Mr. Holmes. And…” Lestrade looks at him with compassion after he pushes his business card forward. Like he had done many times for the families of the victims. “I am sorry for reopening old wounds.”

“Merely rubbing salt on them. Good day, Inspector.” Mycroft turns to his desktop and focuses on something mundane. 

Lestrade walks out the room.

He takes the card, wondering what Sherlock would think of all this.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock is waiting for him when Mycroft returns from work late in the evening. He has fed again. Little brother looks contemplative, sitting cross-legged in an armchair. His palms are pressed together. The digits separate and part from their counterpart on the opposite hand. A classic thinking pose. 

His brother has clearly been to a club of some sort. He had shaved one side of his head, and raked his longish curls to one side. He wears a t-shirt that is far too small. Any small movement would reveal a tantalizing glimpse of his sunkissed midriff. Good Lord, did Sherlock lie in the sun naked during the sunset? And covering his legs are a pair of jeans that appear to be more hole than fabric. 

Oh dear god, he’s wearing a diamond stud in his right ear.

Well. Mycroft doesn’t need to use any great imagination to know what Sherlock had been up to. 

“Don’t like it, brother mine?” Sherlock smirks. 

“I don’t like what it means.” 

“Your jealousy is showing, big brother. But no, I didn’t have any sex if that’s what you are worried about. Just kisses. A few drinks of blood. Just enough to feel human again.” Sherlock stands up, and Mycroft catches sight of something shockingly sparkly in his navel. 

“How many holes did you put in your body?” That question barely makes its way out of Mycroft’s very dry throat.

“Why don’t you find out? If I remove the jewelry before I rest for the day, it would heal over completely by the next night. Perks of being a vampire, I guess. Same goes for any wound unrelated to fire and the sun. It’s why my tan carries over although lighter the next night. So…” 

Sherlock looks absolutely feral. His voice is utter filth as he saunters up to Mycroft, letting his hips sway in a hypnotic fashion. Giving him a calculated eyeful of his navel with each gyration. There is apparently math in seduction. “Why don’t you show me your disapproval, Mycroft – and fuck me.” His hand grabs onto Mycroft’s silk tie – which is still knotted around his neck.

Impertinence! 24/7 indeed. 

Mycroft forcefully grips the back of his brother’s head, sliding his fingers in those ridiculous curls and feeling the strange but not at all unpleasant sensation of his shorn sides against his skin. Their lips crash together rather violently. There is a delicious amount of teeth, and Mycroft moans when Sherlock draws the tiniest amount of blood. He nips at Sherlock’s bottom lip, forcing him to open his mouth – and he ensnares his brother’s tongue. Their groins collide at some point in the proceedings. For the first time, Mycroft could feel the hardness of his brother’s cock – and god, he could feel his own blood rushing straight down to his own. “God.” He breathes. “You. Are. So. Bloody. Infuriating.” He punctuates each word as he walks Sherlock backwards toward the bed. 

“Tell me more.” Sherlock whispers. 

“You. Didn’t. Bloody. Tell. Me. That I could get aroused by rubbing at the spot you bit me yesterday!” Mycroft almost yells. 

“Ooh. That’s not my fault. I didn’t know!” Sherlock lets himself be manhandled, and Mycroft is pushing him forcefully onto the bed. 

There is more aggressive kissing. Mycroft tugs at Sherlock’s ridiculously tight shirt which seems to be practically attached to his skin. “How many people did you kiss today, Lock? How many did you drink from?”

“God. My. Eight. Seven men. One woman. Same for the drinks! Ugh!” Sherlock whimpers when Mycroft nips at his neck. 

Unlike Sherlock’s graceful kisses, Mycroft’s are rough, hungry and he has a burning need to mark up this pristine skin which bruises if he nips hard enough. Unfortunately his marks don’t last, disappearing within minutes of their creation.

“The old tales said thralls were lovely and submissive!” Sherlock complains when he gets a chance to.

“Well. _This_ thrall is not.” Mycroft almost hisses the words against Sherlock’s skin. He knows though that Sherlock has given him the privilege of taking him like this. His brother could easily flip the situation, but obviously prefers not to. And it’s beautiful. He doesn’t say that though. Not the right time or place. “A whole lot of horseshit. That’s what it is. Let me show you exactly who is the _thrall_ between us.” 

“Oh god.” Sherlock helps Mycroft remove the infuriating t-shirt before he could rip it off in his impatience.

“Fuck. You utterly ridiculous boy.” Mycroft curses, looking at the barbells pierced through both his nipples. He reaches for one and pinches it roughly – drawing a keen from his brother. “You did this for me.” 

“Mm… course. Who else?” 

“I’ve never even seen you naked.”

“Well. I thought I might as well make it mem–mpph!” 

Mycroft covers his brother’s mouth again. His hands work their way down the planes of Sherlock’s body – all that beautiful anatomy for him to learn and discover. Sherlock’s body is a little more stonelike than Mycroft would expect a human body to feel like, but it’s nothing that would arouse anyone’s suspicion. A beautiful body preserved by vampiric blood. He kisses his way down, biting as he goes. Sherlock seems to like that judging by the way he writhes and bucks beneath him – being given a taste of his own medicine, although Mycroft lacks the fangs. 

He catches a pink nipple in his mouth and scrapes his own incisor against the nub – enjoying the feel of the metallic studs in his mouth. Sherlock turns into a whimpering mess. 

Ludicrous, that he could reduce such a creature into this state. Mycroft has never felt so powerful. With one hand, he quickly makes short work of his brother’s jeans, and he pulls everything down, revealing his partially filled vampiric cock. From what he understood, vampires do not get erections often. And if they did, they usually had blood beforehand. He gently strokes the cock, and Sherlock whines. Moving his brother’s scrotal sac out of the way – as Mycroft realizes that if he wants to take up on this offer of fucking – he better move or risk spilling before any Tab A can be inserted into Slot B. 

The cheeky bastard. 

A sparkly heart is waiting for him back there. A pink plug that is stretching out his brother’s hole. Dear god. Mycroft runs his fingers along his brother’s delicate rim.

“God. Please get on with it, Mycroft. You are killing me!” 

For that, Mycroft ducks under and licks the tender flesh. Sherlock squirms, his lower limbs threatening to kick Mycroft. There is an indecent squelching noise as the plug comes out. Mycroft uses one hand to free his own achingly hard cock from his trousers. 

Sherlock takes the moment to get up from the bed. He switches things up – straddling Mycroft’s hips. Using his hand, he grasps the base of Mycroft’s cock and lines the glans with his lubed orifice – and Mycroft practically shouts when that tight and slick canal takes him in. And somehow, he knows that Sherlock has never had anyone fuck him up his arse before. 

God. Sherlock bounces vigorously on his prick, his curls bobbing up and down. Mycroft cannot get used to this version of his brother. Looking like someone maybe twenty years younger than his actual age. It’s fucking hot – and somehow, knowing that Sherlock had kissed his way through a club and came home to be fucked raw is doing things to him. When he himself is close to orgasm – and Sherlock seems to know the moment that he is about to hit the point of no return – Sherlock leans over to sink his fangs roughly into Mycroft’s neck. He capitulates immediately. The sensations of euphoria are overwhelming – enough to destroy him as they crash into him with the force of what felt like a tsunami. 

And suddenly, he sees images in his mind. 

Not hallucinations – but Sherlock’s memories. 

His brother is locked into what looks like a centuries old stone structure. It resembles a silo. The ground is laid with carpet. There is one door – made completely out of one solid slab of stone. An earthy scent fills his nostrils. There is also a window, barred with metal located what seemed like several stories up. Sherlock is on his hands and knees, looking utterly unkempt. He looks absolutely desolate. Hopeless. Cried out. 

And Mycroft knows that this is when Sherlock had still been human. 

Perhaps… the last day. 

From the window, Mycroft could see the sun setting. Then there is a loud noise. His brother stands onto his feet, looking grimly determined. He’s wearing a dirty robe of some sort. And then – the stone door is pushed open. Mycroft realizes that the door isn’t even locked. It’s just too heavy for any mortal to open it. 

A man emerges. Beautiful proportions. Wild dirty blond hair. Golden eyes. 

A Greek god. 

But now that Mycroft has seen his share of vampires, he knows that this is a member of the undead. 

“I’ve given you the chance to come peacefully.”

“No. Absolutely not!” Sherlock moves into a fighting stance. 

“Ah.” The vampire simply looks amused. “So much fight. It will serve you well. But not tonight. Acolytes! Take him and prepare him.” 

And then Mycroft watches with horror as four mortal men march into the structure. They all look similar; burly with beautifully toned bodies dressed in clean white robes. 

Sherlock fights. He really does. Kicking. Biting. Punching. Using every dirty trick he could come up with. This isn’t England. Clearly. Where there’s rules for this sort of thing. 

Sherlock knocks one of the men unconscious – but the other three manage to subdue him – binding his wrists and his ankles with rope. A bottle of something gets placed under Sherlock’s nose – and his brother squirms and tries to move away from the fumes.

But alas, everything goes dark. 

“Mycie? Mycroft.” Someone is nudging him. Their voice is urgent. Sherlock.

“Mm… what?”

“Are you okay? You went out for a minute.” 

“Uh yeah.”

“Here.” 

Mycroft feels something cold at his lips. A glassful of water. He swallows gratefully. His own hand reaches out for the glass, and Sherlock holds onto it until Mycroft’s hand is steady enough to take it without spilling. 

A melancholy fills him. He looks at his brother in his ridiculous state of well – undress now. What a traumatic way to go. If that had indeed been the last night that he had been human. No wonder Sherlock had been going on and on about going out into the Sahara when they had first met. Wanting to end it.

Sherlock senses the mood shift immediately. His hand goes toward Mycroft’s and he holds it. He doesn’t look directly at Mycroft when he speaks. His voice is almost devoid of any sort of emotion. Sherlock had known what Mycroft had seen. 

“It was the last night I was human. I was tired. Weak. He had kept me locked in there alone for days. He would let me fight him. It was so stupid. Some vampires, brother mine, in rural places in poor countries – set up shrines and have people worship them. These are very secretive religions. I wouldn’t be surprised if this is where human sacrifices came from. He Turned me that night. And it was the worst night. He drained me of all my blood, and then he offered me his slit wrist. I didn’t want to, but god – it’s an instinct, brother. You drink. And drink. It is the most delicious thing that has ever touched my lips. The taste of a cursed life. He threw me back into my cell afterwards, and I was left to die. Slowly. Painfully. My organs shutting down one by one. My body getting rid of all its excrement. It was horrifying. At some point, brother dear – there is another instinct that takes over. I peeled away the carpets on the floor – and there was earth. And I dug and dug until I made myself a deep grave before the sun rose. And I rested. For days.”

Sherlock takes a moment to pause here before going on with his tale. 

“And then, one day – I woke up. Climbed out of the earth. And with all my strength, I forced the door open. My Maker was waiting for me. His name is Magnus. He was all honey then. I had passed whatever ludicrous test that the vampires had designed for their newly Turned fledglings. He babied me. Fed me a lot of his blood. He is one of the Ancients. A vampire that has lived for thousands of years. A rare creature, for most destroy themselves long before they reach that age. The old vampires seldom make new vampires – but when they do, their fledglings are much more powerful. Similarly, if you take one of those weak vampires we saw the other day and gave them some of my blood, they would become stronger.” 

His brother sighs, but he goes on. “Magnus taught me how to hunt. How to move. How to make fire from vampiric blood. How to drink so that I don’t end up killing my prey. The basic principles. He tried to seduce me too, but I fought back. Finally the fight was somewhat fair. Called him a coward. Taking advantage of all these goldfish for his sense of grandiosity. Turning me against my will, like his own Maker had done back in the days of Ancient Greece. I made him feel guilty. After all, he is the one with the sentiment for me – and he let me go. I took down the rest of Moriarty’s network with my powers. It was laughably easy.” 

“Oh brother dear.” Mycroft whispers after a long silence. “I am so sorry you had to go through that.” He wraps his arms around Sherlock, gently kissing his neck. 

“That’s okay. It’s over.” Sherlock says resignedly. “I have you now. It is what it is.”

* ** *

They lay there together on the bed, their bodies entwined. All the developments that had happened in Mycroft’s day had disappeared from his mind. Instead all he can think of was his brother’s last few hours as a human. Even if Mycroft had known about his predicament, there would have been nothing he could have done to save his little brother. Not from an ancient vampire. 

He thinks about their rough sex. Well. At least rough for him. As a vampire, Sherlock could take a lot more than Mycroft ever could. 

All he wants to do now is gather him up in his arms and never let go. He wants to ask Sherlock to stay after sunrise, but he knows his brother won’t. 

It’s unpredictable, Sherlock had said. Mortals who are unfortunate enough to disturb a vampire’s rest would usually find a vice grip around their neck and perish. The few times that it had happened at least.

His brother turns to look at him. 

Sherlock does that a lot. Scrutinizing him. Categorizing data, adding the minutiae of Mycroft’s appearance into his brain. Tracking every change that time brings. His brother’s hand reaches out and places it against Mycroft’s neck. The touch is gentle. Mycroft wonders if those acolytes that had been in Sherlock’s memories had been thralls. Probably yes. Controlled by their addiction to the vampire’s sweet kiss. 

He could feel his carotid pulse against Sherlock’s palm. 

Sherlock hums contently, leaning over to kiss his neck. It’s surprisingly calming. 

“Lovely and submissive, hm?” Mycroft can’t help saying out loud. 

Sherlock chuckles, his breath warming Mycroft’s skin. “I like you the way you are. They sound boring, the thralls of the old stories.”

“Mm…” Mycroft smiles. “Can’t have that.”

“No.”

“But, brother – fundamentally we are all the same. Thralls. We need your attention. Your fangs against our flesh. It’s an addiction. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. After our night in Baker Street. All I wanted to do was to drop everything and go find you. Force you to sink your damnable fangs into my flesh.”

“You – the master of self-control?” Sherlock genuinely seems surprised. He then whispers. “What have I done?”

“I asked for it. I am a consenting party, Sherlock.” 

“You want to be my thrall?”

“I want to be with you.” Mycroft admits. “I think about it sometimes. The things we could do as vamp– .”

“No.” Sherlock shakes his head. “I won’t. Not you. Mycie.”

“It doesn’t have to be like what you had to go through.”

“I know.” Sherlock shuts his eyes, scrunching his face up. 

“You might think about things differently when you are older, Lock. I certainly did.” 

“Maybe.” Sherlock offers. He then says dubiously. “We will see.” He then chuckles. “Maybe I should keep you in chains like the old vampires did to their thralls.” 

“Kinky.” 

Sherlock snorts, but then falls back into a contemplative silence. A minute later he asks. “I look ridiculous, don’t I?”

“It served your original purpose well.” Mycroft will not verbally admit that he found his brother’s choice in costume… arousing. It would be too much. 

Plus, he is sure Sherlock already knows what he thinks...

“Mm… I did see someone unexpected today at the club though…”

“Who?”

“Molly. I was rather taken aback. She was with someone – a man that looked, I have to say, somewhat like me? I took one last drink from my mark and I left. Not worth the risk of being seen and possibly identified – no matter how different I look. I don’t know if she saw me though. She might have. Wasn’t close enough to feel out her thoughts. Her boyfriend might not like me drinking from her though… and I already broke the rules that I had made for myself. To not involve anyone I used to know…”

“You failed that quite catastrophically, little brother.”

“It’s not my fault that you are an all-knowing overlord of the United Kingdom, Mycie. I couldn’t possibly avoid every CCTV camera out on the streets.”

“Yes, but you could have avoided me.”

“I know. I am weak, Mycroft. I missed you.”

“Who did you miss more, Dr. Watson or me?”

“You.” Sherlock says quickly, surprising Mycroft. “I remember the evening when I left London. You hugged me. All those days we spent planning. I realized my big brother wasn’t such a stick-in-the-mud during that time. You always helped me, no matter how utterly awful I was to you. You still cared even if at times I was beyond hope. You love me even now, when I am a –” 

Mycroft interrupts adamantly. “No – you aren’t. You are still my little brother. You are still you. Just… in a different transport. That’s all. I am just grateful to have you back. I was lonely when you were gone.” 

Sherlock smiles somewhat sadly at him, but he says nothing. 

Instead, he snuggles up against Mycroft, placing a little chaste kiss on his cheek. “Sleep, brother mine.”

* ** *

Angelo’s. 

It’s where the old Baker Street gang has been holding get-togethers for after Sherlock’s leap off Bart’s. There had been two the first year, one the next – and now the fourth meeting approximately a year and a half from the last. 

Mycroft pushes the door into the restaurant, hearing the welcoming chime go off. He doesn’t wait for Angelo, but rather heads toward the best corner of the restaurant. 

The Detective Inspector is already there, his hand resting on a tumbler of scotch. He’s chatting to Mrs. Hudson who has picked a glass of red wine as her poison tonight. Ms. Hooper is there as well. Alone. Already broken up with the man that Sherlock had talked about the week before. 

Mycroft swallows. Tonight will be the night where he will break the news to her. That the Sherlock that she had known is gone now. 

The Watsons are noticeably missing. Dr. Watson had come to the first two and ditched the third. Mycroft had never liked the doctor. His brother’s bratty behaviour toward him had been noticeably worse under his influence. Although he does have to admit that Dr. Watson had been useful in terms of keeping him alive. 

He takes the chair next to Lestrade, feeling that he is the lesser evil compared to the pathologist after hanging up his coat and brolly on the nearby stand that Angelo had presumably set up for them. 

“Mr. Holmes. I am glad you could join us.” Mrs. Hudson clasps her hand together. 

“Anderson will come shortly. John. I am not sure.” Lestrade offers. 

“Moved on, no doubt.” Mycroft says a little carelessly, earning himself a glare from his brother’s former landlady. 

He tunes the words out that follow about how hard Dr. Watson’s had it for the last few years. It’s unbearable. Tedious. 

Ms. Hooper shoots him an anxious look, looking as if she really wanted to talk to him about something. Oh shit. This could complicate things. Perhaps she may have caught sight of his brother at some point. 

Angelo shows up then, inquiring about drinks. Mycroft asks him for a _Negroni_ as an apéritif. There is a plate of bruschetta, a basket of fresh bread and a bowl of olives. The discussion at the table turns toward Dr. Watson’s impending marriage and how lucky he was able to find someone so supportive. Mycroft stifles the urge to utter something derogatory and he finds himself wishing that he was elsewhere. His cocktail arrives, and he has a sip. 

Is Sherlock up yet? It’s almost six. He would love to watch the sunset with a _(naked)_ Sherlock soaking in the rays. He hadn’t seen him since Saturday evening, but a packed lunch had been waiting for him this morning to take with him to work. There had been a sticky note on one of the containers with a heart drawn on it. He had found it when Anthea had walked into his office. For the rest of the day, he had to endure Anthea’s knowing Cheshire cat smiles whenever he dealt with her. _Somebody loves you._

Deep down inside though, Mycroft had loved it. 

He hadn’t been wrong when he had told Sherlock that he needed his attention last week. He only wishes that Sherlock would come to visit him every night instead of every other day if Mycroft is lucky. His hand reaches up to rub at Sherlock’s favourite spot to pierce his fangs through but he stops himself when he notices. 

“Mr. Holmes?” 

Angelo’s voice brings him back to his surroundings. 

“Oh. Yes?”

“What would you like tonight, sir?”

“Could you bring me whatever Sherlock liked to eat?” 

“Ah. But of course.” The man beams at him. “I would be most happy to. A most lovely homage to my favourite customer –” Angelo wipes at his eyes. “I would still be in jail if it weren’t for him.” He dashes off.

“Is everything okay, Mr. Holmes?” Lestrade gives him a look of concern.

Mycroft makes up something. What isn’t okay at this point in his life? 

“Oh. It’s just nearing the holidays. Perhaps the only time of the year where Sherlock and I would set aside our problems to deal with a mutual enemy.”

“Oh?” Mrs. Hudson looks interested.

“Our parents.”

There are smiles and chuckles all around. 

That leads to another question. 

What and when is he going to break the news to his parents? That their son is effectively deceased. They have accepted that Sherlock is missing in action. Or rather, they are dealing with that statement. Mummy had been the most upset with him. Saying things like ‘you should try harder to find him’ and ‘how could you lose him’ before breaking down into tears. She had told him not to call unless there was good news. He is not looking forward to that. As distant as he is from his parents, he doesn’t like to be scolded. Especially if he has known that he had done his absolute best.

He sighs. Takes another drink of his cocktail. As usual, he feels out of place amongst Sherlock’s former friends. Ms. Hooper is talking about her new cat. 

God. He couldn't care less. 

The food comes. Sherlock’s favourites turn out to be chicken milanese with a side of spaghetti and tomato sauce, a small plate of tuna tartare and grilled vegetables. Angelo brings everyone their starters and mains so that he could sit down and eat with them. Angelo’s dishes are usually hearty and of adequate quality – he has to agree with Sherlock, the chicken is fried just right. 

Damn. A thought strikes him. He would probably never eat again if he gets his way. He’s never seen Sherlock eat or drink anything that hadn’t been blood or ejaculate. God. Eating is one of his favourite hobbies. Well. He could eat all the things he’s ever wanted to eat… starting now. But then again, he would gain weight. Per Sherlock, he knows that once the Turning occurs, there is very little one can do to change their bodily attributes. Fuck. He needs to lose some pounds. Gain some muscle. He doesn’t want to be flabby for centuries. This is complicated. Of course, he’s assuming that all this would happen at some point in his life… Sherlock changes the topic now whenever he brings up the subject of Turning.

He drains the last of his cocktail. Another server collects his tumbler and he asks for a scotch. No drinks either. Not even tea. He thinks. He sees Sherlock holding his mug of tea in his hand, preferring to feel its heat radiating against his skin or inhale its fragrant notes in his mind. His brother had confided to him that if he hadn’t had blood in a while, he would order a hot beverage to warm himself up a bit before he goes hunting. To make sure his hands and lips aren’t too cold for his prey to be uncomfortable with him. 

Anderson comes strolling in after Mycroft finishes the last of his chicken. 

Another person that had made his brother’s life miserable before his leap. Except now, Anderson is full of conspiracy theories about his brother. Saying that he’s alive because of exhibit A, B and C. The exhibits getting wackier with every year that passes. The man sits next to Ms. Hooper (phew!) and greets everyone. To give him credit, the man had been full of guilt after Sherlock had left London. Mycroft hides a smile, realizing that the true story behind Sherlock’s fate would be crazier than any conspiracy theory that Anderson intends to present today. 

But what Anderson has to say catches Mycroft by surprise.

“You know Greg – those cases that were solved the last week – the one with teenage girl who had her head bashed in and the boy who was stabbed in the back with a knife –”

“Oh. The Camden Assaults. We got an anonymous telephone tip for that one. Told us where to find the bloody weapon –”

“And that the victims were long lost half siblings. It reminded me of another case that we had two months ago. The Southwark Murder. That lady with the severed hand. We also got an anonymous tip for that one too.”

“Told us where to find the hand, yes. That was an interesting but macabre case –”

“Do you think they could be the same person? I mean – even the caller’s pattern of speech sounded like him –”

Lestrade shakes his head sadly at Anderson. The type of head shake one gives to their old favourite relatives gradually losing their marbles due to dementia. “Maybe. It’s probably someone else with a keen eye for cracking crime. We certainly need more of those around.”

No one ever rejects Anderson’s wild ideas outright. Out of politeness, of course. The Detective Inspector doesn’t seem to buy into Anderson’s latest conjecture. In fact, Lestrade seems to pity his colleague more and more with every year that passes. However, Mycroft couldn’t help but think Sherlock had actually been digging out crimes in his own spare time and calling up the tip lines on public phones. Old habits die hard. 

Angelo stands up and goes to grab everyone a cup of tiramisu and some champagne that pairs well with the dessert. It’s time for the reminiscences and then this interminable dinner can finally have an end. Molly shares some funny happenings in the mortuary. Mrs. Hudson talks about the day where Sherlock had been in a very foul mood and shot up the flat. His brother had apologized afterwards and bought Mrs. Hudson the one and only bouquet of flowers that she’s ever gotten from him. Lestrade always talks about the same old story – the day they met. Sherlock had been high as a kite and deduced everyone’s dirty laundry in less than a minute. Of course, he had also debased all of them too and solved the murder. Mr. Popularity, indeed! Angelo talks about Sherlock clearing him of his murder charges – which had also saved his marriage. And soon, everyone is looking towards Mycroft – and he knows he has to give a speech of some sort. 

He stands up. Holding up his glass of champagne, he begins to speak. “It’s been over three years. Over three years when my brother made that fateful leap off that roof. Perhaps it’s common knowledge that Sherlock and I did not always get along – but the truth is that I cared deeply for him. There is seldom a day that goes by that I do not think about him.” He draws a breath. “Today I want to share something with you all. For it is now safe to do so. As you all know, my brother was not a fraud. A liar. Well – perhaps sometimes –”

He earns a few smiles. Some chuckles from Ms. Hooper and Lestrade. 

“He lived for the thrill of solving a mystery. And even if he never admitted it, he cared about his fellow humans. For his private clients, he always charged his fees based on two parameters: how interesting the case was and how much money his client had to spare. It’s not uncommon for him to take nothing for his services.” Mycroft sighs. He had always found some way to sneakily supplement the months where Sherlock had been too generous to his clients. The old Sherlock would have never willingly accepted money from him. Only money earned or purloined. He goes on, feeling genuine tears threatening to escape his eyes. “I will now talk about the last day. The truth. The question of why Sherlock jumped to his death. It wasn’t because his reputation was in tatters. It was because his friends were in mortal peril. You see – this was Moriarty’s endgame. He couldn’t best Sherlock, so he went after the ones he cared for the most. He hired three assassins. Ordered them to follow their marks. On that roof – Moriarty and Sherlock had their final showdown. Moriarty had a gun. He pointed it… to himself. He told Sherlock that if he didn’t jump, his friends would die. And to make sure that Sherlock couldn’t salvage the situation he killed himself after telling the assassins that they are to kill their marks if Sherlock didn’t jump. So.. –” Mycroft swallows audibly. “He leapt to his death.” 

There are loud gasps all around the table. Ms. Hooper is looking wide-eyed at him – as if he had just grown two heads. 

“So. Who were they?” Lestrade jumps in, looking ashen. “Who were the ones Moriarty threatened?”

“Dr. Watson. Mrs. Hudson. And you.” He looks at each of them pointedly in turn. “To my brother – the noblest functional sociopath to ever walk the streets of London.” Mycroft tosses back his champagne in one go. “Good night.” 

He turns to grab his coat and brolly, throws a few bills onto the table without looking at the denominations – and he strides out of the restaurant after having thrown his bombshell. 

He texts his driver who is nearby. ETA: 3 minutes.

He opts to wait under the awning of another restaurant just up the street.

“Wait! Mr. Holmes! I need to talk to you.” Ms. Hooper is running to catch up to him. Mycroft had expected this. “It’s about.. About…”


	4. Chapter 4

“Shh… not here. Wait.” 

“But…”

“Ms. Hooper. Patience is a virtue.” 

The pathologist looks annoyed but she wisely shuts her mouth. There is a defensive manner in how she stands. He knows that she is dying to call him out on the lies he had mixed into the truth. But it is better this way. For Sherlock’s friends to know the depths of the affection that his brother has had for them. To know that he had not gone out thinking that everyone had forsaken him at that critical period in time. 

The Jag pulls up. Mycroft opens the door. He slides in first. 

“You may enter.” He says. 

Looking around with some anxiety, she enters. She closes the door.

Mycroft pushes a button. “Timothy, just drive.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

He puts up the privacy screen with no particular hurry. 

Finally, he turns to Ms. Hooper.

“So. How may I help you, Ms. Hooper?”

“You-you…” She takes a minute to steel herself. “You told them that he died.”

Mycroft sighs. 

Ms. Hooper. One of the first women to be drawn towards Sherlock and become hopelessly ensnared within his force of gravity. Unrequited love. Such a tragedy. Sherlock had shamelessly taken advantage of her over the years. Cadaver access. Body parts. The use of her flat as a bolthole. Wheedling her to do things for him that would put both her job and her heart at risk. And of course, being instrumental in the faking of his death. The only one aside their parents (and a few of his agents) that had known of Sherlock’s existence. He had already debriefed his agents involved in his brother’s dismantling of Moriarty’s network and they have been informed of Sherlock’s death.

“I thought it was the kinder thing to do. Don’t you?” He asks instead, biting down whatever scathing comment he had originally wanted to say. 

“No…” Ms. Hooper leans forward slightly. Her eyes filled with determination. “No. He can’t be dead. Not after everything. I-I saw him. In London. Just… a few days ago. Dancing –”

“Ms. Hooper. You are misguided. It was someone else you saw. Do you think I really do not know if my brother is deceased or not?”

“But… I would know him anywhere…!”

“Do you really think he would return and not say a single thing to any one of us? Not Dr. Watson? Mrs. Hudson? The Detective Inspector? Our parents? Even I –”

Her eyes are hard. “You –! Why would he come to you? He hated you! God. You betrayed him! Telling all those things to Moriarity – John told me –”

Mycroft had never felt such anger course through him. He clenches his fist. But he knows that this silly girl is saying all these things to him out of anger. Grief. Mummy had done the same when he had told her Sherlock had been missing. 

“Enough.” His voice is deadly calm. “You foolish woman. I said those things to him as part of our plan to destroy your  _ ex-boyfriend. _ ”

She visibly flinches as if Mycroft had physically slapped her. 

“My relationship with my late brother is neither here nor there, Ms. Hooper. Do you really think Dr. Watson is a good source of information about Sherlock’s last days – when the whole purpose of our plan was to deceive him – to deceive the world? My dear Ms. Hooper, Sherlock isn’t coming back. As much as I hate to say it. But that is the truth. He accomplished what he set out to do. At a great price. Do you think I do not have regrets over how this entire situation was handled? I would have happily switched places with him if it were possible. I might have lied to their faces at dinner, but when I said that I cared deeply for him – I did not lie.”

“I loved –”

“Ms. Hooper. I am not here to be your grief counsellor. Sherlock is gone. And the sooner you accept that – the better. We will stick with the original story. Is this understood?”

Her eyes are welling with tears. 

Mycroft presses the intercom. “Timothy. Stop the car. I will walk. You will drive Ms. Hooper off to her flat. You are then dismissed for the night.”

“Yes, sir.”

Mycroft slips out of the car. The sun had long gone down, but he knows where he is. A fifteen minute walk away from home. Timothy had anticipated that his next destination would be his house and had driven the long way from Angelo’s. 

There are clouds gathering in the skies, hinting that rain may be on the agenda. But the fresh air does wonders. It had been suffocating in the Jag, having Ms. Hooper in there with him. 

Oh. The last thing he had wanted to hear about is the torch that she had carried for Sherlock for so long. 

Jealousy. What an ugly emotion. It curls within him. A slumbering beast of green. There are very few things that Mycroft cannot obtain in his life. But Sherlock’s attention. His affections. Those treasures had been hard to come by before Sherlock had left London. 

Mycroft knows that he’s been jealous. Of all of his brother’s goldfish at one time or another. That they had gotten to see him on a somewhat regular basis. Bloody Dr. Watson who had held Sherlock’s attention from the very moment the two men had met. Even Ms. Hooper, who Sherlock had torn down on a regular basis, stomping repeatedly on all her hopes. Mycroft had been jealous that Sherlock had asked her  _ for  _ things. Sherlock never asked him for anything unless it had been an absolute last resort. And sometimes, not even that. 

He curls his lips at that thought. The squalor his brother had lived in during his young adulthood. Some of the drug debts that Sherlock had owed. It had been Mycroft who had always stepped in to help at the end. But it would have been nice to be asked instead of being sworn at.

And now, he is his brother’s thrall. The beast wakes more often now. Flashes of jealousy flare within him more frequently than it ever had done. If Sherlock wishes it, he could easily have more than one thrall. The thought rankles at him. Mycroft does not want to share. He doesn’t know what the long-term ramifications of being a thrall is. And clearly, neither does Sherlock. It will change him. It’s already changing him. Bringing out the primitive facets of his being. 

He had always craved for his brother’s attention, but now this heightens it. He needs him. He really, really does. Sherlock knows that Mycroft loves him. But Sherlock has never said it back to him. Not explicitly. Sherlock has shown his care and regard in other ways. But. Mycroft wants more. The terrible more that an addict always wants. This thought should be alarming to him, but he doesn’t care anymore. 

He’s too far gone.

Someone is following him. He stops once he turns onto his street. Hardly anyone is out at this hour with its possibility of precipitation. There’s no one that he could see lurking in the shadows. It’s not malicious, whatever this entity is. 

Sherlock? He wonders. 

After waiting a long minute, no one makes themselves known. Sighing, he continues his journey. He can feel the eyes still fixated upon him. It’s unnerving. 

He sees him. A silhouette standing next to a lamplight. Inky curls. Shirt. Trousers and oxfords. His hair reaches to his shoulders. It’s still hard to believe that he is no longer human. 

He’s beautiful. 

Mycroft’s hand goes to his neck. The thrum of need is already starting to build up within him. His cock twitching beneath his layers. He should be horrified in regard to how the wiring in his body seems to have changed so quickly. He isn’t. He opts to walk straight home, seeing if Sherlock would follow. He doesn’t look back, but he still feels Sherlock’s eyes bore into him. Taking him apart. 

The thoughts of mortals are transparent. He remembers that odious vampire saying. Sherlock had told him once that being a vampire makes certain things too easy. He can feel the thoughts of humans if he so wants, taking the guesswork or rather  _ fun  _ out of it. 

“Hullo, Mycroft.” 

It shocks him. How suddenly Sherlock is upon him. His brother hasn’t fed today. Or maybe even yesterday. His breath is icily cold. But even then, Mycroft’s heart is beating fast and the shivers down his spine are pleasant. As human as his brother had looked from far away, there is no mistaking him for a vampire now. There is a marble-like quality to him that Mycroft had never seen so apparently before. Like a living sculpture of Michaelangelo’s work. There is an unnatural hardness and jewel-like brightness of his eyes. 

“Sherlock.” He breathes.

God. Fuck. How much he needs. He bites on his bottom lip to cut off the whimper that threatens to escape. 

His brother steps even closer, forcing Mycroft toward the alleyway that is situated between his house and his neighbour’s.

One of Sherlock’s hands shoots out and pins him (lightly) against the wall of his own house. 

“Brother mine, I’ve ruined you.” He whispers, sounding not all that unpleased. 

“Lock…” Mycroft could only stare into those eyes. 

He can’t hide the whine that escapes from him when Sherlock leans just a little more closer to him. So close yet so far from what he really wants. 

Sherlock’s grin only grows wider.

“What was your bodily instinct to do before you first came upon me at Baker Street?” 

“Flee.” Mycroft whispers. “An ominous sensation had prickled under my skin.”

“You had good instincts. None of the other humans have any clue when we are near.” Sherlock is looming so close that their foreheads are almost touching. 

Mycroft shivers again when a fingertip is placed against his neck just where Sherlock would have usually bitten. It’s like ice against his skin. 

“And now?” 

The fingertip traces down his carotid sheath. Mycroft closes his eyes, feeling all that blood promptly rush down to his aching prick. 

A frisson with a tinge of fear courses within him. Fear because he knows that he has lost control of this situation (which he knows he had never had any control over, but really did he ever have control over a situation that involved Sherlock?). A fear that Sherlock is toying with him. That he’s moved on to actual human beings (his brother!) instead of cadaver parts. 

“Sh. Brother mine.” Sherlock pulls away a little. “Every day is an experiment for me. I admit I do not know what the long term repercussions of our relationship are. In that way, this is an experiment. I care for you very much. You are my tether to humanity. To this world, even. Sometimes…” His brother sighs. “I watch the others from afar. You know. Mrs. Hudson baking her biscuits. John working late in the local A&E for extra income for his wedding. Lestrade pondering his cases. I think I will have to visit Molly. In light of your private conversation with her. She’s not going to accept that I am dead otherwise. I will give her one last dream.” 

“A vampire’s kiss.” Mycroft whispers, feeling that beast rise within him. 

“Don’t be jealous, Mycroft. This isn’t –”

“Like me? God. Sherlock. I’ve always been jealous when it comes to you. I am surprised you haven’t picked up on that by now. Why do you think I took Dr. Watson to that bloody warehouse all those years ago?” 

A helpless sort of rage(?) seems to be building up within him, overriding his other overwhelming need to be taken by Sherlock. 

Sherlock appears contemplative. Mycroft sags against the wall, feeling as pathetic as he’s ever done. 

“Brother.” Sherlock says quietly after a moment. His voice is heart-breakingly fond. “I promise you that I will look after you. In every way that you need. You will have to live with the jealousy –”

“You said you fall in love with everyone you drink from…” 

“Those are brief affairs, Mycroft. It’s nothing like this. I never harboured any romantic inklings toward Molly, Mycroft. She’s a friend. Nothing else.” 

Sherlock leans back in again, this time revealing one incisor – letting it brush suggestively across his bottom lip. His hands are back on Mycroft’s torso. He could feel their coldness even through his clothes. Cold lips are upon his now, and he sighs – sinking into the kiss. Feeling those fangs pierce repeatedly at his flesh – draining microscopic amounts of blood. It’s not painful. It’s unbelievably pleasant. Sherlock is going to take his time to feast tonight. That much is clear. His brother’s flesh warms slowly as he indulges, softening with the blood. 

He involuntarily shivers when his brother’s hand works on his trousers. There is the unzipping sound of his flies. Despite the cool air, his cock is still hard – and readily springs out from its confinement. 

“Mm… so hard for me, big brother.” Sherlock smiles. “I like it. Very much.” He purrs. “This isn’t so bad, isn’t it? To sacrifice your infamous self-control?” His breath is now much warmer against Mycroft’s cheek. 

“No.” He utters. 

He’s falling deeper into whatever this is. This abyss of unknown vampiric delights(?). It is getting closer to the point where Sherlock could order Mycroft to do anything in this state and he wouldn’t refuse. Anything to fulfill this need of his. For the pleasure that only Sherlock could bring. 

“Good… good.” Sherlock presses a kiss against his neck, letting the tip of an incisor scrape lightly against his skin. “Mm… so pliant… so lovely. Your heart – it beats for me, does it not?”

“Sherlock…” Mycroft breathes. 

“You would let me fuck you, wouldn’t you, brother mine? You would do anything for me right now, wouldn’t you? To please me.” Sherlock’s words are merciless. “Even if we are outside. Right next to your neighbour’s house? But they aren’t here. You know that.”

“Yes.” Mycroft says helplessly. “Sherlock please. Use me. I am… yours.” 

“I know.” Sherlock’s hand reaches down to encircle Mycroft’s prick. His flesh is warm now – unlike the cold ice that it had been before. “I know, Mycroft. You are mine. You’ve always been mine.” Sherlock strokes, his movement languid – covering his glans with a twist. His fingers encircling his slit, putting a delicious amount of pressure as he goes. “I won’t fuck you today, Mycroft.” He says softly. “But I want to, eventually. I left some toys in your drawer, My – I want you to use them, daily. Start with the smaller ones. Stretch your virgin hole for me. Let me claim you in all the ways that I can. Think of me when you do so.” He then chuckles. “I know you already do for a big chunk of your waking hours. But alas, I like to hear it. Tell me you will.”

“I will, Sherlock.” He gasps, his hips uncontrollably bucking – wanting more of the friction Sherlock is giving him. “I will think of you while I prepare myself for you. But oh… please. Please –” His words disappear in a moan of pleasure when Sherlock’s fangs sink straight down into his neck. 

It is a rush. His mighty brain, capable of carrying multiple processes at once is rendered silent – losing itself to whatever chemicals Sherlock’s fangs are releasing into his body. God. Sherlock’s done this multiple times now – yet the intensity of the pleasure doesn’t wane. It always catches him off guard. It leaves him wanting more. Craving for his vampiric master(?) in all the ways. 

His brother’s hand is still pumping away at his cock – slowly picking up the speed. This is what he is now – a thrall. As he thinks this, his brother withdraws his fangs – inducing a whine from him – but suddenly – he feels a hot wet cavern surround his cock in its entirety – and ohmygodohmygod – Sherlock is sucking him. His delightful cheekbones standing out like twin blades. Mycroft is abruptly at the edge, his muscles of his lower extremities trembling. Yet, he cannot hurtle down the precipice – as somehow his brother is able to keep him there. Prolonging this torturous yet  _ amazing  _ sensation. 

And then – he feels his brother’s fangs sink straight into his sensitive flesh. It is both agony and pleasure – a sort that he’s never experienced before. The fangs puncture into him repeatedly – building a height of pleasure that Mycroft had never obtained – and he spills straight down into Sherlock’s throat. His brother’s arms catch him before his legs and hips finally give way. 

“So beautiful.” Sherlock croons. “We are alike in ways, brother mine. We are both possessive creatures. You are mine, Mycroft. Mine to do as I wish. Yet mine to care for as well. So mine. Let’s go inside now, and let me look after you hm? That was a ghastly dinner that you had, my dear. Throwing out the truth behind my last day in London in such a shocking manner.” He helps Mycroft to the side door of his house. He disarms the security system, and leads him inside. 

* ** * 

Sitting at his dining table, Mycroft finally opens the lunch that Sherlock had made him. Today has been a hectic day, leaving Mycroft with no time to eat aside for a nibble or two on some biscuits and a few sips of tea and coffee. Fish & chips. Mushy peas. Tartar sauce. Sliced fruit for dessert. He had been surprised that Sherlock had packed him something relatively unhealthy. The sticky note today had said:  _ You deserve a treat :) _ Despite it sitting in Mycroft’s personal fridge in his office all day, it still tasted amazing after he had baked in his little toaster oven. 

He reflects upon his day. The tox reports had come back positive. A new drug of sorts. Meant to loosen inhibitions in a subtle way, making people more vulnerable to suggestion. And to loosen their tongues. He had shown the results to Anthea and her face had fallen. 

Lady Smallwood had monopolized over the limited time he had originally set aside for lunch. It had been a confusing conversation as she had been talking around in circles. She appeared to be too stressed to hit on him, as she was wont to do. A small mercy. But she hadn’t been brave enough to ask for what she had originally come to his office to ask. Mycroft has a small idea. It relates to their new assistant. He is certain. Smallwood has been compromised. Perhaps she will attempt to speak to him tomorrow. Then there had been meeting after meeting until he had finally managed to flee the office at five. 

He finishes the fruit and leaves the dishes and utensils in the sink. He will do them another time. Going upstairs, he opts to have a hot shower to wash the stresses of the day away and to shave his stubble. He would have to tackle his other ‘work’ now. Opening the drawer that Sherlock had referred to, he finds an assortment of high-quality silicone plugs. And a new bottle of lubricant. He finds the second smallest plug. Getting on to the bed, he feels absurd. 

Mycroft had never had any desire to be topped. For him, that secret orifice had been for exits only. Sighing, he reluctantly pulls down his pyjama bottoms. God. But Sherlock had bitten his cock over and over again, and he had loved it. Fuck. His prick twitches at the thought of his vampiric lover. That familiar need and anticipation of pleasure beginning to make itself known. He gets on his arms and knees, letting his thighs part. 

Best get on with it before his brain sabotages him in some way. Sherlock will see this. He knows. By draining his blood, his brother seems to know every detail of Mycroft’s days without needing to ask him. It’s unfair. He sighs. Sherlock rarely shares his doings. 

Shaking his head, he concentrates on the task at hand.  _ Like a good little thrall. _ A voice inside his head seems to say. He sighs again. This would be easier if Sherlock was with him. He slicks his fingers with some lubricant. Carefully he brings them back, letting a digit gently circle his anus. He inhales. As he exhales, he breaches his tight furled hole. It’s an alien sensation, having his digit in his canal. He reaches for his partially erect cock and begins to stroke. Slowly. His brother would be pleased with him. 

Slowly, he works a second digit in and then even a third. He feels so full; he couldn’t possibly imagine what a cock would feel like up there. Intense. He conjures up the image of Sherlock fucking himself on his prick, enjoying every second on it. That evening had given him the illusion of control. His hole is opening up with every thrust and twist – just like his own mental barriers to this intrusive act. He is Sherlock’s. He wants him so badly. Wants to offer him his throat. His cock. His arse. Fuck, even his life. Be his brother’s companion for all eternity. Lover. 

He gasps, freezing in place when his fingers brush against something deeper within him. Oh god. This is promising. The prostate. His lower limbs slacken further and he deliberately rubs against this new found spot. Mm… if his brother makes him work his way through all those plugs (well there aren’t many to begin with) before fucking him, he’s going to be a begging wreck in no time. His cock is already achingly hard. 

Reluctantly once more, Mycroft slips his fingers out of his newly explored body part. Generously he lubes up the simple black plug, and with care – slips it in. He could have used a larger one – he realizes, but this is a good start. It’s strange to have weight in his arse. When he moves, even just a little, he could feel a part of it rub perfectly against that sweet spot. God. 

He sees movement. Beyond his bedroom door. A flicker of a shadow. A familiar comforting sensation. God. Oh fuck. His brother has been here all this time? Watching him? He sees blue-green-grey eyes peer at him from one side of the door. Sherlock. There’s a wicked smile upon his face. A hungry look, even though he has evidently fed. Ms. Hooper. He deduces. The night is young, but Sherlock had already paid her a visit. 

His hair is the shortest that Mycroft has seen since his return. He looks like his old self, clad in an aubergine shirt, finely-tailored trousers and a pair of expensive Italian shoes. Despite the feral and impish look on his brother’s face, Mycroft sees that familiar touch of sadness that he had seen earlier in his meetings with this vampiric form of his brother. 

Sherlock steps in slowly. 

This is absurd. Mycroft feels self-conscious like this. On his knees. A man in his forties with a matching body to boot. Partially dressed. A plug up his arse. His cock so hard it could cut stone. His hands instinctively reach over to cover himself. 

His brother springs onto the bed. Gently, he pushes Mycroft’s hand away. Warm soft lips meet Mycroft’s cheek. 

“Don’t cover yourself, My.” Sherlock whispers. “Let me see what is mine.” Another kiss. “You are handsome, Mycroft. My beautiful man. I have to admit, brother mine, that there is nothing more beautiful than you like this. Doing something for me that you have misgivings about. That you trust me. You are not naturally submissive. I understand that –”

“It’s the chemicals in the vampire kiss –”

“I know. It’s rewiring your entire body. Potent stuff –”

“I still want it.” Mycroft admits readily. 

“I know.” Sherlock gently touches Mycroft’s cheek with his hand. “Are you okay with being like this, Mycroft? I fear that it would only get more intense the further along we continue this… whatever this is.”

“I just wish… that you would yield something to me.” 

Sherlock is quiet for a moment. His warm hand continues to caress him. Mycroft all but sighs into the affectionate touches. He wants to curl up against Sherlock. Be petted and kissed. Have Sherlock play with the plug up his arse. God. Have Sherlock tell him that he’s been good. But he stays put on his knees and takes what Sherlock gives him. The hand gently rubs along the side of Mycroft’s head and into his scalp. This feels amazing. 

“This weekend then. I will show you, brother mine. The world through my eyes.” Sherlock finally offers. “I know it’s a paltry offering –”

“It’s a start.” Mycroft murmurs. 

Sherlock smiles at him. He then says. “Take off your shirt for me. Might as well finish the job. At least you aren’t wearing socks.” 

Mycroft looks up at him. Slowly he pulls off his pyjama top. He has an image of Sherlock doing something similar – that ridiculous tight shirt he had worn over a week ago. Instead of a beautifully chiseled abdomen with sparkly bling decorating the navel, he reveals his somewhat flabby middle-aged belly. He’s lost weight though since Sherlock had started making him lunches though. He had cut down on his drinking. And whenever he could, he tries to eat as healthily as he could. 

“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, Mycroft. I regret it. You know. The weight jokes. You deserved none of that. It was the only way –”

“That you could wound me?” Mycroft gives his brother a sad look. 

“Well, I also pushed you away. Lashed out. Pranked you. Stole your stuff… well, the list is endless.” Sherlock confesses. “I am sorry for all of it.” 

A little drop of blood forms from Sherlock’s lacrimal duct and escapes, slowly making its way down his cheek. Without thinking, Mycroft leans forward and licks it off. Tasting vampiric blood for the first time. It’s… sweet. Like an ambrosia of the gods. There’s just a little of the iron taste he had expected – but the rest of the flavour profile he finds it hard to describe. 

“My… you shouldn’t taste that.” Sherlock warns him off. 

“Why… will it turn me –”

Sherlock shakes his head. “Not completely. It will vampirize some of your cells, but a healthy human body will eventually destroy these undead tissues. And if you are grievously injured, it will buy you time until someone can Turn you. It can also be used to stop bleeding.” 

“It tastes good. Like forbidden fruit.”

“Don’t get used to it.” Sherlock says darkly, indicating an end to this topic of discussion. 

His brother’s hands rest on Mycroft’s belly, stroking the soft flesh. Sherlock bends over to kiss his abdomen. “It’s lovely. I like that it is soft and inviting. And you aren’t even overweight, big brother –”

“But you’ve been cooking me healthy things. You brought the gym equipment downstairs… yesterday when I was asleep.” 

“I support whatever it is you want to do.” Sherlock says. 

_ Except for my desire to be Turned. _ Mycroft thinks. He is sure Sherlock heard this thought of his, but his brother says nothing of it. 

“Enough distractions.” Sherlock says firmly. “Let me see what you’ve done for me, Mycroft. Present your bottom to me.” He elaborates. 

It’s an order, but it’s given with a great deal of affection. That thrumming need to please his Sherlock is coursing within his vessels again. 

Trying to ignore the feeling of ridiculousness, Mycroft turns around. 

He can tell himself all he likes that he’s doing this to please little brother, but the truth is, the  _ thrall within him _ delights in it. Maybe he does have an inner submissive streak that had been uncovered with his brother’s mysterious chemicals. Who knows. Whatever it is, Mycroft repositions himself on his arms and knees and instinctively elevates his bum in the air. At the very least, his brother hadn’t brought him a set of ridiculous pink plugs or even the sparkly ones that Sherlock himself had worn. 

“Good. If you don’t like this, Mycroft, we can stop. At any time.” Sherlock reassures him. 

“No. It’s okay. I enjoy this.” Mycroft replies. “It’s just… I am not used to it. Like you, Lock – I wasn’t a very sexual person to begin with.” 

“Open your knees a bit more.” Sherlock pushes against Mycroft’s thighs and he obeys, letting his limbs part into a more wanton position. “Beautiful. You have a lovely pert arse, My. You are doing so well. So well.” 

His brother cups Mycroft’s buttocks, giving them both a little squeeze. It feels strange to be objectified like this. And even stranger that Sherlock thinks that Mycroft’s arse is just as amazing as Mycroft thinks Sherlock’s arse is. To be fair, none of them are in a great position to admire their own posteriors. Sherlock utters more words of worship to Mycroft’s bottom, before uttering. “I just want to eat it, Mycroft.” And he shivers at that. 

A finger rubs teasingly around the periphery of the plug. Mycroft tries not to squirm or snap his thighs closed. It’s difficult. A half bitten off moan escapes when Sherlock replaces his finger with a devilish warm tongue. The muscle traces his rim. He gasps when the plug is pulled out, and then almost cries when his brother shoves it back into him again, using the toy to work his ring of muscle looser. Another hand has taken his cock, and is stroking it. 

Sherlock finds the perfect angle and force to cause the plug to move deliciously against his prostate, and Mycroft finds himself completely splayed out on the bed in pleasure. Sherlock doesn’t reprimand him from leaving his original position, and he’s too fucking gone to care. Why did he object to this again? He uses his hips to work together with Sherlock’s thrusts – barely aware of the otherwise embarrassing mewling sounds that he is making. He whines when his brother stops for a moment – hearing him reaching over to grab something. There is the characteristic snick of the lube cap.

Oh god. Sherlock is going to fuck him with something else. 

“Sh. I am not going to fuck you until you beg me to, big brother. I just thought you can take something larger, hm?” Sherlock resumes fucking him with the original plug. 

When Mycroft gets back into the rhythm of things – his brother removes the plug with an obscene squelch. Almost immediately, he feels another silicone plug nudge at his entrance. He breathes, in and out and on an exhale – his brother starts pushing in. The plug stretches him incredibly. And just when he thinks he could take no more – he feels the flared base rest upon his arse. He sags with relief. His brother reaches over with his non-lube sticky hand and gently strokes Mycroft’s face, removing the sweat that he hadn’t noticed had formed. 

“Beautiful.” Sherlock croons. “Come to my lap, My. I think I am ready for a second drink. Won’t take too much from you today since I had some from you yesterday. You will like this. I promise.” 

Obediently, Mycroft goes to Sherlock – feeling the plug shift, rubbing at his insides. This plug does the job better than its previous smaller mate. His brother’s hand starts frigging him again – and just as those fangs pierce his neck, he hears the sound of vibrations. 

Oh fuck! The plug his brother had chosen vibrates! A filthy sort of noise escapes him, and his brother’s other arm keeps a firm hold on him, keeping him in place. 

The pleasure floods into him, like a relentless crashing wave. 

_ God. I wish that Lock was fucking me. _ The thought comes to him. And he sees himself, being held up by his brother with no other support. A thick hot cock fucking into him over and over again. And fangs giving him that beautiful potentially lethal kiss. His legs wrapped tightly around Sherlock’s torso. He doesn’t even recognize the expression on his face, so distorted by pleasure. There must be a similar look upon his face now. His own cock is trapped between them, the only friction it gets is from rubbing against Sherlock’s shirt. Please pleasepleaseplease… Mycroft finds himself begging for release. And soon it comes in an explosive spurt. He sags against his brother.  _ I love you. _ His mind-Sherlock says to him, gently kissing him against the forehead. 

He finds himself tearing up at that. He wants Lock to say that to him so badly. For real. It’s frustrating, knowing that Lock can’t keep his lips and fangs for him only. Knowing that he can’t reasonably provide all the blood Sherlock craves. Knowing that he had drunk from Ms. Hooper earlier in the day. He knows that she will not bother them again. But still! Sherlock had told him that he would have to accept this. And Mycroft knows that even if he ever gets Turned, this would still be the truth. He suspects that vampires can drink from each other, but the tastiest treat of all will be the fresh blood of a human being. 

_ Do you want to see? _ Not from his mind, but Sherlock’s. 

_ Yes. _ He finds himself thinking.

* ** *

_ Sherlock is sitting in a living room. Ms. Hooper’s living room. She hasn’t yet come home yet from her shift at Bart’s. He has already helped himself to a cup of tea. A kitten glares accusingly at him from the opposite armchair. She jumps from the chair and hisses at Sherlock, seeming to know that he isn’t here for a friendly visit. Or perhaps, she could sense that he is a member of the undead. Who knows. When she leaps forward, attempting to tear at Sherlock’s trousers, Sherlock grabs her by the scruff of her neck. _

Mycroft is shocked when he sees little brother’s fangs buried in her neck. His brother had been so quick, that he hadn’t even seen him strike. 

_ The kitten instantly goes limp into his arms. Sherlock carries her to the corner of the living room, where a basket lies. Gently he places the familiar into it. She looks like she is sleeping.  _

‘No harm done.’ Sherlock’s voice comes into his head, not that Mycroft particularly cares. But then again, his little brother always had a soft spot for animals.

_ His brother looks toward the door. A few seconds later, there is the sound of a key in the knob. Sherlock turns back around, his back facing the entrance. The sun is halfway down to the horizon, its light bathing London in a myriad of hues.  _

_ There is a gasp. The dropping of various items to the ground. Sherlock still doesn’t turn.  _

_ “Sherlock…” Ms. Hooper whispers in some sort of awe. “I knew it. Your brother was wrong. You’ve come back.” _

_ Sherlock slowly turns around. The dying light of the sun surrounds him, painting an otherworldly image. The vampire and the sun.  _

_ “No, Molly. I came to say goodbye.” Sherlock says quietly.  _

_ “No…” Ms. Hooper looks at Sherlock with anguished eyes.  _

_ “I am sorry, Molly. I really am.” Sherlock looks around the flat. “Not much has changed since I came here last. Don’t you remember? I shaved my head in your bathroom before I left. You brought me Chinese takeaway. Pan-fried noodles with seafood. A piece of chocolate cake. We joked about Toby, but I suppose he passed on recently?” _

_ His brother takes a step closer. Ms. Hooper seems to be entranced.  _

Mycroft had caught his brother off guard when he had first laid eyes on him back at Baker Street. Sherlock hadn’t been in the right place of mind to play off the charming creature he is now. But yet, a familiar current of jealousy travels within him. How familiar Sherlock seems with Ms. Hooper’s flat. Even with the facets of her old life before he had changed. 

_ “Yes. He was getting old, Sherlock. He had more bad days than good ones. I took him to the vet half a year ago, and had him… put down.”  _

_ “All lives end.” Sherlock says quietly. Reverently. “It’s what makes life so beautiful. As did mine.” _

_ Another step. Sherlock’s steps are reminiscent of a large cat stalking prey. Without knowing it, Ms. Hooper is walking backwards toward a wall.  _

_ “Molly.” He whispers.  _

_ “I waited for you for so long.” Ms. Hooper says. _

Oh dear god. Sherlock is acting upon one of Ms. Hooper’s fantasies. Mycroft wants to look away, but he forces himself to keep watching. He had taken his brother’s offer after all. 

_ “Molly, molly, molly…” Sherlock is so close that the pathologist could feel his breath upon her face.  _

Mycroft flinches when Sherlock places his hand against Ms. Hooper’s shoulder and presses her lightly against the wall.

_ And then, she goes slack in Sherlock’s arms as fangs pierce down into her neck.  _

‘I guess I should spare you what she saw in her mind. What she felt.’ Sherlock’s thought penetrates into Mycroft’s mind again. ‘I let her play it out. Her fantasy of how the night before I left should have gone in her opinion. I manipulated her memory, brother mine in the meantime. Deleted all her suspicions. Rehashed that conversation you had with her in your fancy car. Made you provide some fabricated evidence of my death. Somewhere in Serbia.’ 

Then, Mycroft is looking into Ms. Hooper’s bedroom. __

_ Stuffed animals. A picture of Sherlock standing on her dresser. Another picture of her and her old cat, Toby. Otherwise it is simply furnished in plain but good-quality furniture. The pathologist is curled up in the blankets. Sobbing.  _

_ She believes it.  _

* ** *

When he comes to, Sherlock is still holding him in his arms. Mycroft’s head rests on his shoulders. The fangs are no longer in his neck. The familiar euphoria is still coursing within. He feels sated. Tired. There’s dried cum on his belly and on Sherlock’s shirt. The inert plug is still within him. His brother’s hand strokes down Mycroft’s back in a soothing kind of manner, before making its way to the plug. With a gentle tug, twist and Mycroft using his own muscles to push out the toy – it comes out, leaving Mycroft feeling this odd sensation of emptiness. Loss. 

“You won’t ever do that to me, will you?” Mycroft whispers, suddenly feeling rather emotional. 

“Do what?” Sherlock asks. 

“Leave me like that. I don’t need your nobility, Lock. I just want you.” 

He had just realized how vampires played with their prey. The sublime moment of the vampire’s kiss. Giving them visions of fantasies, replays of their happiest moments – a smokescreen while they leech blood and alter their memories. If Sherlock had wanted to leave him, he could do the same to him as well. In the case he gets bored. Or feels that he should leave Mycroft’s life for some misplaced sense of morality. One could never know with Sherlock. 

“I won’t.” Sherlock lets his lips touch Mycroft’s cheek. “I promise. It would be immoral to leave you at this point.” 

Mycroft could feel Sherlock smiling against his cheek. “Stay with me?” 

“Shower with me.” Sherlock suggests instead.

An undignified yelp emits from him when Sherlock bodily lifts him up from the bed and carries him into the loo. Good god. He will never get used to this. Being so easily manhandled as if he weighed nothing at all. 

* ** *

Mycroft pants, jogging briskly on his treadmill. Day four of his new daily exercise regimen and he’s already feeling beat. Muscles that he hadn’t even been aware of are sore as fucking hell from the weights that he had done earlier. And good god, he suddenly feels that he is being watched again. Sherlock. He’s never caught his brother in his house so late in the morning. In his peripheral vision, he sees Sherlock lift up the heaviest weight on the rack and balance the bloody thing on his finger. Ridiculous. The strength that he has. 

He runs the last minute of his program and initiates the cool-down phase. His brother is still scrutinizing him, as if he’s never seen a running person before. Finally when the treadmill comes to a stop, Sherlock grabs the towel that Mycroft had left on the bench and hands it to him. 

“Pool-boy now?” Mycroft quirks an eyebrow.

“You wish.” Sherlock smirks. “It occurred to be that I’ve never seen you so worked up and sweaty.” He leans closer, sniffing at Mycroft’s neck. “Delightful.” He also presents a plate containing slices of orange. “For rehydration.” 

“Thank you.” Mycroft takes a slice and bites into the sweet fruit. “Somehow, I can’t picture you grocery shopping.”

“Oh, I do. Not too many people do their groceries at the dead of night. I still use teabags, even if I never drink any of it.” Sherlock muses. “Any plans for the holidays?” He inquires.

“As if you don’t know already.”

“It’s polite to ask.” 

Mycroft drops the peel onto the plate and picks up another slice. “I would like to spend it with you, if you are amendable.” 

“That’s fine.” Sherlock smiles. “Mummy and Father not hounding you?”

“They told me not to talk to them unless I had good news pertaining to you. None of them have called since I told them you were missing.” He takes the last slice on the plate. 

“Pity. It might be kinder to take some ashes and put it in an urn, brother. That way they can have a little closure.”

“Maybe after the holidays.” Mycroft grimaces. He’s not looking forward to this conversation at all. 

“Go shower. I will lay you out some breakfast. Perhaps Lady Smallwood will crack today.” Sherlock whistles as he dashes up the stairs. 

Mycroft shakes his head. Nothing is private anymore. 


	5. Chapter 5

It had been what he had suspected. Smallwood has been the target of blackmail. Her late husband had relations with an underage girl before he had passed. 

Mycroft curls his lip. Magnussen. The same old pile of crap. That man tries and tries again to get parts of the government under his control. If not with bribes… then with blackmail. 

That assistant of his hasn’t been fired yet. She’s working for Magnussen. That’s for certain. Trying to dig up dirt on him. No one has managed to dig up anything in Mycroft’s life for years. Even decades! He lives a boring life. He eats, sleeps, works out and goes to bed. Oh. Vampiric brotherly lover aside. It’s all so terribly boring, dealing with these idiots that are so eager to bring him down. They are all so hatefully predictable!

The question is, what to do about it? 

Where is Sherlock anyways? He said he would be here. And it’s almost ten now. Did he forget? 

Mycroft sighs. He feels rather abandoned. His hand plays with a tumbler that he had just used to drink water out of. It’s Friday night, the day before Christmas Eve. 

And he’s alone. 

Should he open the scotch then? He has a fine Excalibur that he’d been keeping for a rainy day. 

It wouldn’t be the first time his brother broke a promise to him. But now, it’s different, isn’t it? Their power differential. Vampire and thrall. 

Sherlock doesn’t keep a phone on him, so there is no way for him to contact him.

He walks over to the window looking out onto the streets. He rests his forehead on the cold glass. It’s a foggy and wet evening. His fingers touch his neck and rubs at it, feeling that familiar tingling sensation of pleasure hum throughout his body. His cock predictably strains against his trousers, desperate for Sherlock’s attention. Even his rear end craves for something thick to fill it. 

God. A few short weeks had completely altered the internal wiring within his body. His brain. Externally he looks no different. His brother has always been meticulous with the exact amounts of blood he drains from him, making sure that Mycroft is never seriously anemic. Always giving Mycroft’s body enough time to regenerate blood. His blood. 

Their blood. 

Obviously there is no literature out there that could describe what’s going on with him. He doesn’t even know if this process is reversible. 

The most worrisome thing is that he doesn’t care at all.

Then suddenly, he feels arms surround him. A comforting presence. Sherlock. Must have gone through the side door. His brother’s nose nudges against his neck, scenting his blood. Not unlike a vintner examining their casks of wine, trying to deduce the properties of the wine within. His brother is warm. He’s fed then. Mycroft squashes the jealousy, knowing that Sherlock would barely take anything from him tonight. He whines when something sharp scrapes against his neck, causing that burning urge for his brother to use him in some way to flare again. 

“I am sorry, brother mine. I did come here before you returned from work. I saw you, and then realized that I shouldn’t have come empty handed. It’s almost Christmas, you know.” Had his brother’s voice always been so silky? 

Oh god. He realizes something. Mycroft’s deductive powers haven’t completely rusted away. Sherlock must have seen what he had found out about Lady Smallwood and decided to go do something about it. 

“What did you do?” He wants to sound indignant for Sherlock meddling in affairs that he really shouldn’t be touching, but it comes out rather weakly.

“Let’s just say your old friend Magnussen will not be bothering anyone anymore. He died of a cardiac arrest, big brother.” Sherlock smiles before sucking a kiss against Mycroft’s neck over his carotid sheath. “He was already dying when I drank from him. Terrible man. Had fingers in Russia and China. He keeps most of his information in that mighty brain of his, but I did retrieve the information he was planning to blackmail his next round of victims. He always has a hardcopy of the evidence on hand when he is about to strike. Use it well, big brother.” Sherlock slips something into Mycroft’s hand. A USB stick. “Merry Christmas.” 

“I thought vampires didn’t meddle in human affairs.” 

“I only meddle in  _ your  _ affairs, big brother. You were always interfering with mine when I was human, so it only seems right to repay the favour.”

“I don’t want you to get into trouble, Lock.”

“With who?” Sherlock smirks. “If I can’t make your life a bit easier, what’s the point of being a vampire? I don’t care, you know. About these traditions and laws that these modern vampires have. I understand why they are there, but vampires – as powerful we may be, we are still shackled with the intelligence and perspectives that we had when we were alive. Goldfish. Plus no one will know that this is the work of a vampire anyways. At most, secret agent. Magnussen has many enemies. And we all know the Russians have become rather flagrant in taking them out.” Sherlock scoffs. “I bloody hate blackmailers. Tell Lady Smallwood that she owes you. Big time. And maybe to some of the others that you tolerate.”

“Mm…” Mycroft can feel his limbs trembling when Sherlock’s incisors scrape against his neck again. God. How could this possibly feel so good? “You’re so good to me.”

“Oh, you have no idea how good I could be to you, my beautiful thrall.” Sherlock murmurs, letting his hands slide down against Mycroft’s turtleneck. “Let’s make things… better.”

“God, yes.” Mycroft’s breath fogs up the window. 

Instead of going directly for his cock, as Mycroft thought his brother would, Sherlock slips his warm hands underneath his turtleneck. The hands caress and massage his slightly aching core muscles that he had worked out the day before. Mycroft lets his forehead gently hit the window, closing his eyes to focus on the sensations. It’s different today. There is a lot of reverence in Sherlock’s touch. Affection. His brother brushes kisses against Mycroft’s jaw and neck, adding the barest hint of teeth. 

“Your body is changing.” Sherlock whispers. “Muscles bigger than I remember. Slightly more defined. Less fat. You might not notice it, but I do.” His hands reach Mycroft’s chest, and his fingers lightly flick and pinch at his nipples while stroking the abundant fur.

“Mm… I haven’t noticed.” Mycroft is starting to have difficulty with words. More of his cognitive brain functions going offline with every second that passes. But, the vain part of him preens that his brother had mentioned something about his efforts. 

“Blood ought to be rested. Lactic acid diminishes the flavour.”

“Yet you go to night-clubs and –”

“We do what is practical. Diabetics with slightly uncontrolled sugars taste wonderful. Too much and it tastes like syrup.” Sherlock offers. “But don’t let that give you ideas. Now…” His brother purrs. “What ever should I do to you today, hm? You are dying for it, My – to be used?” 

“Well, all humans are dying. Just at different rates.” 

“I think you are too coherent for my liking, Mycroft. Not acceptable.” 

“Well, you did pick me as your thrall – mpph…” Those fangs sink deep into Mycroft’s neck. Not to suck blood, but to inject that familiar cocktail of blissful chemicals. 

“That’s better.” Sherlock remarks, before piercing Mycroft’s flesh again. “I love it. That I can reduce you to this mewling mess, big brother. Give that big brain of yours a break. That you trust me with this state of vulnerability. Mm… maybe you want to be fucked?” 

“God.” Mycroft could feel his cock jump at this. “Please…” He whimpers when Sherlock finally pulls down his pants and bottoms, causing his organ to spring readily upward. “Anything.” 

“Gorgeous. Brother mine. Precious thrall.” Sherlock takes Mycroft’s throbbing cock in his hand, and gives it a little stroke. He then cups his bollocks and rolls the testicles around, before sliding back to tease that private orifice. “No plug, big brother? Your Friday nights are too vanilla.” Sherlock tuts, more with amusement than anything else.

Good god. He would bloody go get a plug if that’s what Lock wanted. “Please…” Mycroft whimpers. 

“Please what?” Sherlock is back to lazily frigging Mycroft’s increasingly aching cock. It’s almost infuriating the way he asks, because Mycroft knows that Sherlock can hear his every thought. 

“Fuck me.” Mycroft gives what Sherlock wants to hear. “Oh god, brother, please – fill me…” 

The sound of a packet being ripped open causes a whine to escape Mycroft. The need within him to be fucked is reaching an intensity where he feels that he might die if he doesn’t have Sherlock’s prick within him in the next few minutes. What is in these chemicals, anyways? Fingers lightly massage the exterior of his anus before a pair of lubed digits work themselves in. 

Mycroft had been obedient, plugging himself daily before he went to bed for his brother. Those sessions are most unsatisfying when his brother isn’t around to reward him. The plugs simply are not enough to dampen the need that flares within him whenever he starts pleasuring himself. He doesn’t even want to masturbate anymore outside of Sherlock’s presence. Doing it himself only leaves him wanting more – like throwing water onto a grease fire.

His brother has three fingers within him now, working him loose without touching his prostate. Mycroft whines, thrusting his bottom in the direction of the fingers to get Sherlock to rub at the spots he wants him to reach. His brother only chuckles and tells him to stay still. 

“Please.”  _ pleasepleaseplease… _ Mycroft can almost feel the tears in his eyes. The desperation. It’s never been so bad. 

He feels something hard press against his arse. 

“What are you, my dear?” Sherlock asks.

“My… croft.” He struggles. “Yours. Your thrall. Please.” 

He almost screams when he feels Sherlock’s fingers part his arse cheeks and a hard, warm and pulsing organ penetrate his hole. He sobs with pleasure when Sherlock’s fangs find themselves within his neck again. His brother rocks into him, his strokes sure. Fuck, fuck – fuck this is amazing. Making up for a life with limited sex. His brother’s hand is around his prick again, stroking him at the same rate that he’s getting fucked at. His own breaths are getting stilted, but Sherlock doesn’t seem to be affected at all in this way. 

“God. You are so tight.” Sherlock croons. “So deliciously hot. Mm… Definitely fucking you again, brother dearest.” 

Mycroft is totally lost. His brother is saying things, but he’s no longer understanding them. The pressure that is building within him is immense, and he needs release. Words like ‘more’, ‘’please’ and ‘harder’ leave him in a garbled fashion. And then he makes out the word ‘come’ from Sherlock’s words and it’s like an explosion. He’s never orgasmed this hard. His brother’s fangs are still in his carotid, sipping minimal amounts of blood. Sherlock supports him as he sags like a ragdoll in his arms – and suddenly – 

* ** *

_ He finds himself outside a spacious mansion in the outskirts of London. This is through Sherlock’s eyes. There are numerous security technologies, but Sherlock seems to know what they are, and how to avoid them. It’s too easy for a vampire. They would make amazing MI5/6 agents.  _

_ Sherlock crawls over bushes and a fence. And there seems to be a stealth mode of sorts that Sherlock could trigger, rendering him invisible. He reaches the back of the mansion and scales the wall, finding a window that someone had left open earlier in the day. Sherlock checks the room, making sure it’s empty, before opening the window just a bit wider and slipping in. Just behind the door, Sherlock seems to be listening intently to what is going on in the hallways.  _

_ A few minutes later, Sherlock opens the door into an empty and dimly lit hallway. Casually his brother strides about, admiring the expensive paintings that adorn the walls. He reaches a door. There is a clicking sound, and Sherlock opens it. Magnussen’s office. Mycroft had seen pictures of it before. His brother closes the door. Another click. Relocked.  _

_ Sherlock stands in front of a mirror, letting Mycroft see how he looks for the day. Shaved sides with a slight fade. A mop of curls on top. He wears a stud and a ring in his right ear. One of his old tight-fitting shirts and a pair of trousers. And then his reflection in the mirror disappears, even though he hadn’t moved at all.  _

_ There are footsteps in the hallway. The door is unlocked again, and the familiar figure of Charles Augustus Magnussen enters with a mug of coffee in hand. He glances around, even looking directly at Sherlock, but he notices nothing. He places his mug on a coaster on his desk before sitting down at his desktop. He doesn’t even notice it when Sherlock stands next to him and drops powder in his coffee. The man is whistling while checking documents, emails and videos. Various items of blackmail and business propositions in a secure server. He picks up his cup of coffee and he sips. He falls back against his leather seat with an ‘ah…’ of pleasure.  _

_ Sherlock lets him continue on his routine for a bit before he steps closer to Magnussen, this time making his steps heard.  _

_ “God. What is that?” The media mogul looks around. He then shrugs. “Should get someone to look at those bloody pipes.”  _

_ “Hello, Charles.”  _

_ The man jumps in fright. He can clearly see Sherlock now.  _

_ “Good god, where did you come from?” His hand reflexively goes for a drawer, but Sherlock is faster.  _

_ His brother’s hand is gripping onto Magnussen’s wrist.  _

_ “Now, now. Guns. So messy. Stains the carpet. The walls. There are much more elegant ways to end a life. As you would know.” _

_ “What… are you implying?” His eyes widen in realization. “Sherlock Holmes. You are dead!” _

_ “Ah. Someone finally gets it!” Sherlock sounds delighted. He claps his hands together. “Perhaps you were the smartest man in England. Of course… my dear Charles, so… are you. I don’t take kindly to people who try and pull a fast one on my brother. Now… there’s just one more thing before you expire… Information.”  _

_ Magnussen tries to feebly resist, but whatever Sherlock had given him is already working. Sherlock punctures the man’s neck with his fangs and he sucks. When Sherlock is done with him, he lets the body naturally fall onto the desk. As if he had collapsed from a heart attack. _

_ Sherlock locks the door on the way out after dealing with Magnussen’s private server. Easy work as he knows all the secret codes after having fed upon his blood. _

* ** *

Good god. Mycroft’s brain struggles to resume its normal functions. Sherlock had killed Magnussen. Can turn invisible if he wills it. Can manipulate things in space. Such… power. 

Sherlock sounds slightly annoyed. “What do you think I’ve been doing when I was away, brother dear? Hosting tea parties? Chit-chatting with Her Majesty? Oh wait, you’ve been doing that.”

“No.” Mycroft manages. He knows some of the things his brother had done. The hard decisions he’s made. The people that he had killed from Moriarty’s network. The people he had left behind to die to save his own skin. He had been doing all that before he had Turned into a vampire. Little brother had done exceptionally well for someone with very limited agent training. 

No, Mycroft had been living the life of comfort at his desk while his brother had mucked about in the trenches in the last few years. He adds. “I mean… this really… you know… it makes it real. It felt more abstract when you were away.”

“Oh Mycie. For someone who makes life and death decisions on a daily basis, you are rather –”

“I don’t physically end them.” Mycroft admits. “I’ve never killed anyone directly.”

“I know. You give the orders.” Sherlock picks him up. 

Mycroft doesn’t even protest. He’s too well-fucked to even stand by himself. His legs are draped over Sherlock’s arm. “Yes.”

“I poisoned him. Magnussen. I only drank until I felt his heart stop. Which I’ve been trained to do. Blood drunk after that point makes a vampire sluggish and slow. But since I left behind most of his blood, he doesn’t look like a typical dried out corpse that vampires of the old days leave behind. That’s another boring rule the modern vampires have – thou shalt not kill. Unless you can do so without other vampires finding out.” 

“Or if you are too strong to take down.”

“Yes.” Sherlock smiles at that. “There’s that. But there are finite limits to my abilities. My Maker, Magnus, is far stronger than I.”

Good god, Mycroft thinks when he catches sight of his brother in the flesh for the first time this evening. He will never get used to Sherlock’s appearances these days. The wild haircuts. The piercings. Looking as Mycroft had seen him in Magnussen’s mirror. His brother had really taken advantage of the fact that his hair grows back every night to try different styles. It’s wise to do so, as it makes it less likely for him to be recognized in the outside world. 

Sherlock carries him upstairs and cleans them both up in the loo. He redresses Mycroft in another set of pyjamas. It feels strange, having Sherlock look after him like this. 

“Aren’t we going to your… um. Lair?” Mycroft asks when Sherlock puts him down on the bed later. 

“Later. You are tired, dear one.” Sherlock kisses his cheek. He fondly ruffles Mycroft’s hair. “Take a nap. I will take the USB stick and have a look at it while you do. I just copied what I could from his computer and destroyed all the data before I left. Then I can show you where I hang out.” He then chuckles. “Psh… Lair. This isn’t some gothic novel, Mycie.” 

“Stay with me a bit? Till I fall asleep at least?” Mycroft can feel his eyelids grow heavy. “Please?”

Sherlock climbs into bed with him. He covers them both up with the quilt. 

Mycroft sighs contently when Sherlock curls up against him. His big spoon. 

* ** *

“Wake up, Mycie. We best go before the sun rises.” 

Mycroft opens an eye tiredly. It’s still dark in his bedroom, yet he could make out the jewel-like tones of his brother’s eyes. They almost seem to glow. 

“I forget. Sometimes. That you can’t see in the dark as I do.” Sherlock says thoughtfully. 

There is a click and the lamp on the nightstand flickers to life. His brother’s hand lightly touches him on the arm. Mycroft rubs the sleep from his eyes and sits up.

“Come, big brother. I laid out some clothes for you. There’s breakfast in the oven. Let’s get ready.” 

God. This is unreal. Mycroft thinks as Sherlock walks out of the room. 

* ** *

Bundled up for the cold weather outside, Mycroft follows Sherlock down the street where there is an unassuming blue Audi parked by the kerb. 

The moon is still hanging in the sky, obscured by mist. Typical weather for December, but it seems like the perfect backdrop for a vampiric adventure. His brother unlocks the car with the fob, and opens the door for Mycroft to get in. Sherlock himself then gets into the driver’s seat. He turns on the engine, quickly running the heat. 

“Yours?” Mycroft asks.

“Found it from someone who died.” Sherlock smiles. “Have fake papers and all for it. I don’t drive often, Mycroft. It’s faster to move about London by foot, but I figure this would be easier on you.” 

“Oh. Thank you.” 

“Of course.” Sherlock drives out of Mycroft’s neighbourhood. “I figure another way would be to harness you to me while going under. In what you call stealth mode. Vampires, brother mine, are naturally creatures of the shadows. Your average fledgling will not have this skill, but it’s not necessary for them to scratch a living. More powerful vampires can conceal themselves for certain amounts of time. The caveats: it takes energy and you need to have a part of your mind constantly devoted to maintaining your concealment. It doesn’t render you completely silent. And it cannot be maintained when you are drinking from someone. There are other issues as well, but this is how it works.” 

“Energy?” 

“A finite resource for what you could describe is the ‘magic’ a vampire has. Or rather their power. How much energy a vampire has is dependent on vampiric age, how many degrees of separation their blood is to the first Ancient vampire and practice. There is still much I have to learn.” Sherlock says thoughtfully. 

“Like what?”

“Flight, for instance. Magnus can fly for brief distances. I can hover a little, but no more.”

The streets of London are barren at this hour. Perhaps another half an hour is needed before the city comes alive. Or not. Mycroft isn’t sure. It’s the start of the Christmas festivities today. Precipitation that isn’t quite snow or rain sprinkles down part way through their drive. 

Soon, his brother pulls into the lot of what looks like an abandoned warehouse. The sort where Mycroft had liked to hold interrogations in the past. Sherlock gestures for Mycroft to stay. His brother gets out of the car and with a loud creak, he pulls up an old rusted garage door. He returns back to the driver’s seat and drives the Audi into the old dingy parking space within. The door falls behind them shut in a controlled manner. 

Finally his brother kills the engine. 

They both get out of the car. This place is unfamiliar to Mycroft. He can hear the sound of dripping water echoing around the space. It is a locale where horror movies could be shot. An eerie sort of feeling crawls up his spine. Sherlock gives him a quick reassuring smile and leads on. There is an electronic keypad attached to an old rusted door. His brother taps the code 7-1-5-5-2-1 and there is a click. He turns the knob, revealing an enormous but abandoned space. All grey and poorly lit. 

Mycroft instinctively reaches for his brother’s hand. 

“It’s alright, My. Perfectly safe. Come with me.” 

Sherlock leads him deeper into the warehouse, their footsteps reverberating throughout. Mycroft almost expects bats or some other creatures of the dark to come flying out. 

“All very silly. The rumours.” Sherlock chuckles. “Animals stay away from me. Or hate me on sight. As Molly’s cat did. They know that I am unnatural. That we are predators. Or rather, parasites. I might have considered keeping a pet otherwise, Mycroft. I’ve always wanted a dog. Or even a cat. But… it is what it is.” 

When they reach a corner of the warehouse, Sherlock bends down and slips his fingers between some cunningly hidden grooves on the floor. With a grunt, he pulls the heavy slab sideways, revealing a set of stone steps. Mycroft gulps and proceeds downward when Sherlock gestures for him to do so. His brother follows him, closing the slab behind him, leaving Mycroft in utter darkness. Sherlock’s hand finds him again.

“Is it all dark down here?”

“No. Just this little bit. Didn’t see the point of lighting it up, since this is only a passageway to get to the main space.” Sherlock stops him for a moment. He wraps his arms around Mycroft, letting his nose nuzzle his neck. “What are your instincts telling you My?”

“To leave.”

“Mm…” Sherlock lets his lips touch that special spot on Mycroft’s neck.

God. That familiar spark of desire flickers to life within him. The last thing Mycroft wants to do is to leave. His brother holds him for longer, brushing tender little kisses against his face and neck. 

“It’s alright, Mycroft. I won’t harm you. Not intentionally.”

“I know.” Mycroft whispers, trying to temper down the neediness. 

“Too bad the weather is so terrible. I would have taken you to the roof otherwise. It’s a lovely place to see the sun rise and fall over London.” Sherlock says a little wistfully. 

“Another day.” 

“Yes.” Sherlock touches his lips to Mycroft’s. “Mm… you smell exceptionally divine. But I won’t partake. As tempting as it is. Maybe save it all for a lovely Christmas meal.” And then he asks. “Do you really want us to spend Christmas at our parents’ place?”

“They’ve both left the country, brother mine. No one will be there. Besides us. I am sure there is a place somewhere that you can rest uninterrupted.” 

“They really don’t want to talk to you.”

“No. They do not.” Mycroft admits, feeling a little downcast. “I think they know of your fate. But do not wish to have confirmation.” 

There is another wall that Sherlock pries open. Fuck. If he is going to be here all day, there is no way he can get out in an emergency by himself. He’s trapped. What is this place, anyways? 

“This place used to be home to another vampire who has since moved on from this world.” Sherlock informs him. “He lived for a few centuries. Which is considered old by most vampires. Ah. Don’t worry brother mine, I’ve taken pains to ensure your every comfort while you are down here. You can explore as you like.” 

The second stone slab leads to what looks like an elegantly furnished flat. It contains solid Victorian-era furniture that had likely belonged to the previous owner of the flat. Various paintings and tapestries hang everywhere. Some of them look like they are worth legitimate money. The Van Gogh for instance. Mycroft is positive that the painting is not a forgery. The floors are tiled in maple. Electrical lights illuminate the space, and Sherlock turns more on as they go deeper into the flat. 

There is a kitchen, a living room, a recreation space, a study teeming full of books, a bedroom and another room that Mycroft could not decipher its purpose. But he has a feeling that it is where Sherlock beds down for the day. Two doors open into it. The floor of the room is barren except for a large Persian carpet. There is framed papyrus in the room. The Book of the Dead. 

“This room was rather creepy when I first moved in here. Drago had it decorated with things he unearthed as an archaeologist in Egypt. His job became a hobby when he became a member of the undead. There were statues of the gods, stone tablets, real canopic jars –”

“A tomb.” Mycroft muses. 

“Yes. I donated most of the stuff in this room to a museum. There are a lot of artifacts in the flat still. From all sorts of old civilizations. I mean, I am dead – but that doesn’t mean I want to sleep in an actual sarcophagus. He had his custom-made. Drago also had this habit of tying golden rope around the handles of the doors, as a means to check if anyone tried to disturb his slumber during the day. A strange man.”

Curious, Mycroft asks – remembering all the jewels and cash that he had seen at Baker Street. “Do you have a hoard?” 

“Every self-respecting vampire has assets, big brother. Most of mine live in offshore accounts, but I do keep some stuff here and a few other spaces around the city. I acquired most of it when I was abroad. Lots of dirty money that no one would notice missing from Moriarty’s network.” Sherlock then sighs wistfully. “The sun is rising, big brother. I can feel it. I would normally stay up, but the weather is crummy. Think I will get up earlier instead, maybe we can share a sunset at least, hm?” 

“That would be nice.”

“Yes. There’s food in the fridge. Snacks on the counter. Tons of books. The grand piano in the living room. Drago’s curios from his adventures around the world. Even his journals if you are interested. I keep a lab in the bedroom, but you are welcome to sleep in the bed if you wish. I changed the sheets this week. There’s a cinema behind the other door in the recreational space. You can partake of all your favourite old films if you wish.”

“Can I see your resting spot?” 

Sherlock thinks for a moment, and then he says. “Fine. Wait here. Let me get changed first.”

* ** *

Mycroft surveys the relatively empty space. 

Now that he thinks about it, this room is cold. Colder than the other places in the flat that Sherlock had shown him. It reminds him of the time he had gone to Egypt. As part of the itinerary by his political hosts, they had taken him to the Valley of the Kings almost a decade ago. 

He remembers walking down the hewn steps of Tutankhamun’s tomb. He had felt cold too that day despite the heat. An uneasy feeling had tingled throughout his body, getting stronger as they approached the final resting place itself. As if there is an ominous price to pay for disturbing the tombs of the Ancients.

Of course, he had known the Curse of the Pharaoh is a myth. The group associated with the discovery of the young king’s tomb had lived to be an average of seventy-three years which had been an improvement over the actuarial tables for people of their socioeconomic status. Interestingly, a famed countryman of murder mysteries – Sir Arthur Conan Doyle had helped perpetuate the legend. And the archaeologists had supported it, helping protect their sacred findings from being pillaged by grave robbers. Yet cold hard facts are hard to grasp when the mysteries of death and the afterlife are considered. 

There are certain points of interest when it comes to Egyptian mythology and vampires, Mycroft muses. The mummy – a preserved body through the process of desiccation and careful wrapping. A vampire – a body preserved through the properties of vampiric blood. The belief of Ka – the soul – by the ancient Egyptians. How Ka would travel to the afterlife and return to its preserved body in the day. Vampires sleep in their resting spots by day, and roam in their ‘afterlife’ by night. He wonders if the old myths were influenced by vampires. He could see why Drago had turned his resting spot into a tomb with Egyptian inspiration.

“Humans and vampires have been intertwined since the beginning. It’s unsurprising that vampires have found their way into aspects of human culture and remained.” Sherlock says quietly, stepping into the room. 

He is dressed in pyjamas. Mycroft finds it endearing that his brother still wears such clothes for his rest. Sherlock had taken out the earrings, intending for the flesh to regrow over the day. 

“Move to the side, big brother.”

Mycroft obeys. Sherlock kneels on one side of the room. He slips his hand beneath the Persian carpet, and he pushes. Hard. There are the sounds of a mechanism as the floor of the room starts opening up, revealing a pit that is approximately a metre deep. Its walls are covered in intricate wooden panelling, and the floor is covered in a mattress. There are pillows and quilts. One of the wooden panels had been replaced by a slab of the periodic table of elements. Sherlock’s doing, no doubt. 

“Other vampires could get in.” Mycroft remarks. 

Sherlock smirks. “This is meant to deter humans. For their own good. Vampires. They know better to disturb my rest.” He slides down into the pit and proceeds to settle himself for the night. “Mycroft? What are you –”

Mycroft descends into the pit. There is a baser instinct pulling him to Lock. He wraps his arms around his brother. Sherlock hums in contentment, turning slightly to nuzzle his nose against Mycroft’s neck, reigniting that need that Mycroft had forced down earlier. Mycroft exhales shakily. 

It’s confusing, these conflicting instincts that war within him. Telling him to flee. Telling him to stay. Human vs. thrall. 

Sherlock smiles knowingly at him. He reaches over to gently cup Mycroft’s face before kissing him, letting a fang draw the smallest drop of blood from his lip. 

A soft moan escapes from Mycroft. How could something like this feel so good? 

“You are mine, Mycie.” Sherlock whispers. “I own you. Look at how you respond to me. How your face looks when I touch you. Only I can make you feel like this. Be like this. You crave me.” He runs his hand down Mycroft’s turtleneck, and those dexterous fingers work at unfastening his belt and sliding down his woolen trousers and pants. “Mm… this will never get old.” Sherlock purrs as his hand lazily encircles Mycroft’s shaft, already plump and aching for attention. For release. There’s another kiss, tinged with fang. “You followed me into my crypt, dearest one – whatever should I do for you?” Those jewel-like orbs seem to flash. “The Ancient Egyptians buried everything they wanted to take to the afterlife, Mycie. I could be selfish and take you with me –”

“God. Please.” Mycroft whimpers, as Sherlock continues to stroke languidly at his cock. His brother had taken his free hand and slipped it under the wool of his turtleneck, gently caressing soft flesh. “Take me. Take me with you. Lock…” 

His brother seems to shake his head, trying to free himself from some basic impulses. The hardness in Sherlock’s eyes seem to soften, reverting him to a more human appearance. “It is the way of things to be born, to live and to die. Vampires are unnatural for we have broken this cycle. I don’t want to, Mycroft. I don’t want to do this to you. But at the same time, I relish it. I don’t want to be alone when you pass, Mycroft. I won’t last. Not long, anyways –”

“There will always be –”

“No. Very few vampires make it past the first century. It’s not easy. I won’t care for another as I do for you. When we meet, My – I crave you too. As you do for me.” Sherlock is sitting up now, looking down at Mycroft as he speaks. His hand is still gently tugging at Mycroft’s prick, keeping the intensity burning within him. “I wanted to end it. Break this cursed life. I had it all planned out. That I would go out into the desert sun before the passage of the New Year. But you persisted, Mycroft. I love seeing you. Seeing the changes of your body through time. Knowing that you chose this. That you willingly sought me out. There is nothing that I can say to describe the magnitude of what I feel for you. That you willingly submit to me, even though I know you question what is the future of us. You can ask anything of me, Mycroft – but don’t ask me to Turn you. Maybe I might change my mind. But I don’t know. I think at the end of the day, I am selfish.” Sherlock murmurs. He quickens his movements, using his fingers to play with Mycroft’s slit, adding the perfect amount of pleasure.

“Sherlock…” Mycroft gasps, feeling his hips buck uncontrollably as he reaches the peak. “Sherlock…” 

“Cum, brother.” Sherlock says before he engulfs the glans with his mouth. 

Good god. Mycroft shudders as he spills, watching Sherlock’s throat swallow his emissions. It’s a beautiful sight, seeing plush lips and the beautiful lines of Sherlock’s neck working to fellate him. His brother releases his cock with a plop and licks his lips. Sherlock embraces him, letting his head fall on Mycroft’s shoulder. 

Sherlock won’t hurt him. Mycroft thinks. He could sense the weariness in his brother. It must be pretty late now. Sherlock had described that vampires essentially become stone at rest. Their limbs rigid. If disturbed, they would move reflexively to defend themselves. He can feel the stiffening in Sherlock’s upper limbs around him. He ought to be scared, but he isn’t. If sleep overcomes his brother, Mycroft would definitely be stuck in this crypt all day. 

Sherlock kisses his cheek – his movements lethargic. And he whispers. “Go Mycroft, I am not ready to take you into the afterlife with me. I will see you at sunset. I won’t risk your life just to see if you could cosleep with a vampire during the day.” 

The limbs around him slacken, and Mycroft finds himself obeying his brother. Even though he hadn’t wanted to. 

“Go, My. It’s okay to leave the crypt top open. Just turn off the light and shut the doors. Don’t come back in.” Sherlock’s voice is drowsy now. 

Mycroft stands still at the edge of the crypt, watching his brother slip into unconsciousness. Mesmerized. Sherlock is still as a statue in repose. He doesn’t breathe. Cautiously, disregarding his brother’s earlier warnings, he walks forward. Curious, he places fingers on his brother’s wrist – trying to feel for a pulse. But there is none to be found. The skin, which had been warm seconds ago, is now frigid. Ice. Suddenly, there is a flash of movement. Mycroft jumps as the opposite arm reaches for him.

He’s too slow and the hand nabs him, grabbing roughly at his neck. 

Oh god. Why didn’t he listen? He’s going to die! 

His heart pounds wildly in his chest. But the fingers suddenly go slack, and Mycroft breathes loudly in relief. Sherlock recognized him then. No harm done. He picks up a quilt and tucks his brother in, before pressing a kiss on his hard-as-stone cheek. His brother’s curls are still soft as silk, and he marvels that the hair is actually growing longer by the minute. The holes in his ear had closed already. This is so creepily fascinating. A corpse preserved beautifully by vampiric blood. Yet despite his near-death experience, there is something angelic about Sherlock lying so still.

It is confirmation that Sherlock really is dead. Or rather, undead. A tear escapes Mycroft’s eye, falling directly onto his brother’s face. He’d never really had a chance to mourn Sherlock’s death. 

His fingers still comb through Sherlock’s locks.

“I love you.” Mycroft whispers, letting his hand trail down from his brother’s curls to his cheek. “I will stay with you forever, Lock. I don’t care if it’s unnatural or natural or whatever it is.” 

After what felt like ages, Mycroft finally stands up. He wipes the wetness off his face with the dorsum of his hand, and vaults out of the pit. With somber steps, he strides out of the chamber, turning off the lights and closing the doors behind him. 


	6. Chapter 6

There are no windows in Sherlock’s set of rooms. However, there are window-like structures built into the walls, painted with translucent scenes of the outside world, lit by light behind them. A skyline of London under the sun. A tree with birds sitting on its branches. A park with humans enjoying walks, picnics and watching the ducks in a lake. Scenes of everyday life. 

The sun is about to set. It is strange to have gone all day without seeing the sun on one of his days off. Mycroft had passed the time looking through the rooms. He had found Drago’s journals and read one during lunch. 

His brother had made him meals and left them in the fridge. Cucumber sandwiches and butternut squash soup for lunch. A hearty spicy soup made from pork bones and potato accompanied by rice for dinner. He had sat at the grand piano after his midday meal with Drago’s old musical books, and dusted off his old neglected skills. He had worked through the last movement of Beethoven’s Tempest sonata. The piano is slightly out of tune, but bearable. He also had to ignore his compulsive urges to check his phone. There is no signal to be had here, even for his technologically advanced device. 

The vision of Sherlock lying down in the crypt is still fixed in his mind. How still he is! A lifeless body that resembled a marble statue. No natural rise and fall of his chest. 

He opts to shower. Sherlock will wake soon. And if he times it just right, he could catch his brother waking up from his slumber. Sherlock had actually laid out some of Mycroft’s clothes on the bed, anticipating that he would have liked a shower. He dries himself off, shaves and uses some of Sherlock’s aftershave. After he changes (a tight-fitting dark shirt and a pair of matching trousers), he makes his way back to those double doors leading to the pit. 

With a momentary hesitation, he sighs – resting his hand on one of the handles. Is this a wise idea? He asks himself. He had almost died earlier. The feeling of Sherlock’s death grip on his neck can still be somewhat felt around his neck. He opens the door. Hell. Fuck it. He shivers upon stepping in. It’s frigid in here. His hand finds the light switch, and uses the dimmer switch to slowly illuminate the space. His brother is in the exact same position as Mycroft had left him. 

He descends into the pit once more. Sitting by his brother, he lightly touches his brother’s cold cheek. He almost leaps when the eyes suddenly blink. There is an odd sort of twitch that goes throughout Sherlock’s body. 

And there it is, the rise and fall of his chest. 

With bated breath, Mycroft watches as his brother turns toward him. 

“Mycroft. What are you doing here?” Sherlock whispers hoarsely. “God. You didn’t leave when I told you to. Mycroft. Good god. I almost killed you.”

“You didn’t.” 

“Fuck. The price I pay for being just a little selfish.” Sherlock appears mad at himself. “Should have just shooed you out. Closed the crypt door.”

“Lock. This isn’t your fault. It was my decision. But now we know, don’t we? That it’s safe for me to stay with you during your rest? And selfish – whatever do you mean?” 

Sherlock looks sadly at him. “I wanted you to – For you to watch over me. Like you did when I was a child, My. When you would read to me, and stroke my curls when I fell asleep.” 

“Oh, Lock.” 

“I think a lot these days. Well. I have all the time in the world to do so now. Of the past. All the things I had taken for granted. I was silly. That when you left home all those years ago, I thought you had abandoned me. I was alone.” Sherlock admits. 

“Never, Lock. I was hurt. I had to admit when I came home and you ignored me. I missed my brother, you know. And then –”

“You came home less.” 

“Yes.” Mycroft feels the old sadness course through him. And then there had been the drugs. That had really taken a huge toll on their relationship. 

“Come, Mycroft.” Sherlock changes the topic before it could become too heavily mired in sentiment. “The sun is about to set. I want to see it. And then we will go to our parents’ house.” 

“Oh god, your hair – it’s really that long?”

Sherlock smiles, running his fingers through his long curls. “Yes. It’s such a nuisance. I cut it every day. Guess for Christmas you can tell me what to do for my appearance.” His smile turns into a smirk. “After all, you’ve always wanted to dress me up. Get me into fancy suits and ties. I know Mummy would be appalled –” 

Mycroft shakes his head. “I want you to dress in what you find comfortable, Lock. It’s Christmas Eve, dearest.” 

A darkness seems to fall on Sherlock’s face. 

“What’s wrong, Lock?”

“Just thinking…” Sherlock sighs. “Nevermind.” He stands up from the crypt. “The sun is dying.” 

* ** *

Mycroft watches from the doorway of the loo, where Sherlock is taking a pair of scissors to his long locks. He cuts it short, like how he had worn them before he had left London – letting it be as a casual curly mop. He undresses, removing the pyjamas he had rested in. Mycroft’s eyes rake across his naked torso. The beautifully defined musculature. That pale skin. That lovely plush bottom. From an aesthetic point of view, he could see why a vampire would be tempted to preserve his brother in their undead blood. 

Sherlock turns his head coyly. His lips form a smirk, and he gives his arse a knowing wiggle. Mycroft steps toward him, just as Sherlock picks up a curved needle and pierces it through his navel. God. Tantalizing drops of vampiric blood well up from the wound, and before Mycroft is aware of it himself, he’s on his knees – lapping at the ambrosia flowing on Sherlock’s chiseled abdomen. 

“Fuck, Mycie – what are you doing?” Sherlock steps away from him, the silvery metal of the needle still embedded in his flesh. 

“Instinct.” Mycroft manages before shuffling toward his brother, his tongue cleaning up the rest of the blood. “I wasn’t even aware –”

“That you were doing so? This is all wrong.” Sherlock shakes his head, finally removing the needle and replacing it with a navel ring that sparkled in his umbilicus. “I don’t know what this means, Mycroft. I wish I knew what we are doing.” He attaches a platinum chain that goes around his torso – it links up with the jewelry in his navel. “You like? Should I put more –”

“God…” Mycroft is really speechless. He’d always suspected that his brother has a vain streak in him. Doesn’t Sherlock know how fucking alluring he is? 

“The sun.” Sherlock remembers, and he quickly throws on the rest of his clothes. A nice tight-fitting salmon-pink shirt. A pair of woolen trousers. His usual fare in the old days when he had been alive. He puts on his socks (the sock index is still preserved), and a pair of shoes. “Come on – Mycroft – we will miss the sun!” 

His brother helps him up from the floor – and Mycroft literally has to run to catch up with his brother. There is another hidden door in the living room. Sherlock remembers momentarily to grab Mycroft his coat and scarf, before leading him up a series of corkscrewing steps.

When they emerge, the London sky is aflame with colour. The dreary weather of the morning had given away to clear skies at night. It will not be a white Christmas this year. It’s cold though, and Mycroft shivers when the wind blows. 

Sherlock is absolutely unaffected as he dashes to the edge of the warehouse roof, giving Mycroft flashbacks of when he had leapt off Bart’s all those years ago. There is a view of the skyline (reminiscent of the painted fake window downstairs), and the Thames. Sherlock seems to enjoy the rays of the setting sun falling upon his vampiric skin. Mycroft could hear his phone vibrating countless number of times in his pocket – now having finally picked up a signal. 

Fuck. Whatever it is, it sounds important. He is torn between enjoying the view of Sherlock enjoying the sun, and duty. The thrall within him demands him to pay attention to Sherlock, but the sense of duty for his job is ingrained within him. 

His brother notices his preoccupation and walks toward him. “Look then. Mycroft. I know your job is important to you. Time is something we have.” 

Mycroft gives Sherlock a grateful smile, before turning his attention to his neglected phone. Texts. From Anthea. The discovery of Magnussen’s death. The report had been emailed to him this morning after a raid that his agents had done after they had been alerted to the former media mogul’s death. Suicide or cardiac arrest. Autopsy results indeterminate. Nothing suspicious on video. Mycroft knows that Magnussen has no cameras in his office. There is another report as well, on some murders that the MI5 had been investigating recently. He skims through the report and frowns. 

Sherlock looks thoughtful, and then he says. “For fuck’s sakes. Those idiots –”

“You know of this, brother mine?” Mycroft shows his brother the pictures of the victims. Each one of them look shrunken, pale – as if they had all their blood sucked out of them. 

“It means the fledgeling population of vampires is getting too unwieldy in London. Low quality vampires who have no sense of self-control. Or poor training. They don’t know how to evade suspicion, or they don’t care. The covens are supposed to deal with this, but clearly they’ve been too lenient over the years. And I thought so, big brother. That some agencies have suspicions that a vampiric population exists. I don’t know the details, but breaches like this have occurred, and it required some tactical decision making by the vampire covens to cull the ones responsible, and to kill all the humans who know the existence of the vampires.” 

“Shit.” 

Sherlock shrugs. “It’s none of my business how the vampire covens choose to conduct their affairs.”

“But it could lead to war? A vampire cull – as you call it? And you –”

“I will be fine. They will contain the breach, as they do every time it happens.”

“But then, they would kill the humans who suspect – could they not… modify the memories instead?”

“It’s not a skill that new-age vampires readily possess, Mycroft. It’s one thing to make a human think they had a fantastic night. And quite another to erase suspicions that vampires exist.”

“But you could –”

“Do you really think the others trust me? They do not. They fear me. Loathe me. They would kill the people regardless. And I refuse to spend my evenings getting involved in some stupidity that these idiots have perpetuated. No. I think it is best not to interfere. Even your safety is not guaranteed, My. I am afraid.” Sherlock looks downcast at him. “Of course, I will do everything in my power to protect you… But I am not with you every hour of the night.”

“They are asking me if I had any opinions on the matter of this case.” 

“Best not get involved.” Sherlock says quietly. “You can’t be a thrall and an advisor to a group of vampire hunters at the same time –”

“Vampire hunters? Fuck. Sherlock – we don’t even have confirmation that vampires exist. It’s all conjecture.”

“Well. To the MI5 of course, but you – Mycie –”

“I feel like I am betraying my own kind.” Mycroft interrupts. 

“I know. I felt like that too. With my Turning. The first time I drank. I thought. How could something so amazing be so awful –”

“The truth of many joys in this world.” Mycroft responds sagely. 

“Killing didn’t bother me so much. I’ve been doing that since I was alive. However. I have to say that I never enjoyed it. Taking a life. But as a vampire… it’s different. Drinking to the last drop – brother – is an incomparable pleasure. Feeling the heart give up, taking up every tendril of memory the victim has – selling them a beautiful vision or rather fantasy of their life before they pass. It’s like – you are a God. You hold the power of life and death in your hands. You see everything in your victim’s life. The good. The bad. Their struggles. Oh. Even the darkest of humans have their beauty –”

“Magnussen.” 

“No, brother. He died differently. Quickly. Poison. I felt his heart stop, but that is not because of me. I haven’t drank like that since returning to London. I don’t wish to shit in my own backyard, pardon my French. And also, it’s not something I wish to get used to.” 

“You fear you will lose your humanity –”

Sherlock gives him a hard stony look. “Perhaps.”

* ** *

There is snow. Large wet flakes blowing in the wind. 

It’s surreal. Mycroft reflects as he walks up to their parents’ house in the middle of the night. His vampiric brother following closely behind him, carrying his own trunk. He fishes out the keys from the pocket of his tweed coat, and he inserts the correct one. It’s been a long time since he’s come here without Mummy and Father greeting him at the door. The parents have fled to the sunnier climes of the world without mentioning when they would return. If ever. 

Both himself and his brother do not have tight-knit relationships with their parents, yet Christmas is one of the few times where they would try and pretend that this fact wasn’t so. 

His brother closes the door quietly behind him. It’s been a few days since anyone has been in this house. The housekeeper doing her duties to keep things shipshape. 

“I didn’t think I would be back here, Mycie.” Sherlock steps deeper into the foyer. “It looks the same since I was last here. So many memories.” His voice grows quieter. “Both good. And bad.” 

“I know.” Mycroft acknowledges, finding the light switch in the darkness. “I know, little brother.” 

When Sherlock places his trunk down next to Mycroft’s near the stairs, Mycroft gently pushes him against the wall and brushes his lips against his. They are cold. Hard. He cups his brother’s face with both of his hands, feeling the marble-like texture of the flesh, the softness of his curls. Sliding his hands more anteriorly, he could feel the slow pulse of the carotids in Sherlock’s neck. A vampire’s heart beats much slower than a human one. This is not normal. Mycroft muses. Well none of this is. But Sherlock stays pliant under his touch; letting his prey explore him. Those weaker vampires that had invaded his home – Mycroft doubts that they would have the self-control to let their prey do so. 

Sherlock chuckles, letting his teeth graze at Mycroft’s lips. “No, brother mine. It does take a lot of self-control to not go at you. You are quite delicious by vampiric standards. I intend to enjoy you to the fullest during these holidays. You aren’t prey. You are a thrall. There’s a difference.”

Mycroft moans when Sherlock presses his fingers lightly against his neck. Rubbing at that special spot where his fangs liked to go. There is some connection between it and his cock, and it almost never fails to make the organ twitch in interest. Cause a desire to burn within him, one he had never known before meeting his vampire. 

“Sherlock.” He utters helplessly. 

“God. Look at you. So gorgeous.” Sherlock purrs. “Mm… all mine. Brother dear. What would the denizens of Whitehall say? If they knew how you spent your nights? I do very much like a compromised government.” 

Fuck. When did Sherlock learn how to speak like this? His poor prick is straining against his trousers. And it's true, isn’t it? He is compromised. That MI5 project. People will die. The only human being that Sherlock would deign to save would be himself if he gets caught within the crossfire. Sherlock had said those breaches of secrecy happen often, and the vampires clean up after themselves. But how many humans have perished over the decades? Centuries? It would explain some of the mysterious deaths within the MI5 over the decades. Those involved in secret projects that may or may not have pertained to the vampires. He hadn’t even known about the existence of vampires before Sherlock had reappeared. 

But he finds himself caring little, when little brother sucks kisses on his neck – deliberately marking up the skin as an ardent possessive lover would. Ye gods. He falls back against the wall, hearing the sounds that one of the darkest pleasures of the world draws from him. Little pleas of more are mixed in. His hips are seeking desperately for some friction – trying to rub against his brother’s front. 

“Please…” Mycroft whispers. “Use me.”

“I think…” Sherlock pulls back a bit, leaving Mycroft bereft. He smiles teasingly. Fondly. “I would very much like to have your bottom today. What do you think about that, Mycroft?” 

“Anything.” Mycroft gasps when Sherlock pulls off his turtleneck, letting the cool air touch his skin. “Please, fuck me.”

“You ask so nicely.” Sherlock reaches down to undo his own belt and trousers, letting it all fall down on the floor. “Suck me, big brother. Make use of that mouth of yours.” 

Mycroft finds himself on his knees. Good god. He’s never given a blowjob in his life. Received one, yes. He finds himself regretting mocking his brother’s virginity all those years ago. There’s a light thatch of curls at the base of his brother’s cock. It is partially erect. Slightly pinkened by blood. It’s elegant and long, like the rest of his brother. Perfect. 

“Don’t just stare at it.” Sherlock sounds amused. “Come on. It won’t bite.”

“But you would.”

“Such wit. You are a fast learner, Mycie. I think you will soon be begging to suck my cock along with everything else you crave for.”

Slowly, Mycroft reaches up for the organ. Unlike his own, it’s rather cold. But nevertheless, alive. He curls his fingers around it, and lightly strokes. Sherlock sighs when Mycroft tentatively brings the cock to his lips, blowing warm air against it. He presses a sloppy kiss to the slit, before engulfing the glans into his mouth – mindful of his teeth. 

“Good… good.” Sherlock says breathily. “Warm my cock. Prepare it for your hole. Mm… that’s it.” 

Mycroft gradually takes more of the shaft in his mouth, not daring to let it go too far into his throat. He doesn’t want to look more like a fool than he already is. 

“Oh Mycroft, Mycie… you could never look like a fool. To me at least.” Sherlock says affectionately, letting his digits intertwine with the hair on Mycroft’s head. “You. On your knees like this. Your lips around my cock. Somehow looking dignified. God. Your mouth feels so good. Yes.. more. More of this.”

Sucking harder, he continues swirling his tongue beneath Sherlock’s frenulum. There’s something so intoxicating about making a vampire lose himself in pleasure. It’s mutually beneficial. Getting them both to stop contemplating their positions in the world and focus on the here and now. 

Then Sherlock pulls his cock out of Mycroft’s mouth. He whimpers at the loss, and Sherlock smiles at him wickedly. Knowingly. His brother bends down and picks him up. Kissing him before Mycroft could complain about being manhandled in this manner. Mycroft’s legs are wrapped around Sherlock’s thighs, and he holds on tightly to Sherlock for support, barely biting off the moan when Sherlock’s lubricated digits find his hole. God. How does he even do that? 

“Don’t muffle your sounds, My. I want to hear everything I earn from you.” Sherlock whispers in his ear. “Mm… so tight, big brother mine. Should make you wear a plug in my presence so we don’t have to prep.” He kisses him again. “So I can fuck you whenever and whereever I want to. You’d like that, wouldn’t you – Mycroft? You – who lives to please?”

God. Mycroft can’t even speak anymore when Sherlock kisses his neck again. Sherlock asking him all these rhetorical questions. When he knows all the answers. Mycroft isn’t even sure anymore that he could deny any of his brother’s sexual requests anymore. Everything they do fills him with such pleasure. The thrall’s inner need to please. A most needy sound leaves him when his brother’s very much erect cock brushes against his hole. Sherlock chuckles, before finally sliding that phallus into him – stretching him slowly. 

Mycroft sobs with relief, feeling his brother rock his cock in and out of his hole. And then his brother’s teeth punctures his neck, and he is lost again to mindless pleasure. 

He sees things in the haze. Feels things. Vampire’s magic. Sherlock and himself intertwined in bed, just cuddling. Looking happy. Laughing at something silly. The two of them walking the streets of London, arm-in-arm. In broad daylight. Mycroft returning home from work with Sherlock waiting for him. Greeted with a kiss. His brother playing with a water gun – spraying his ammo at him in the heat of summer. Mycroft finds Sherlock’s stash of water balloons and throws them in retaliation – before penning him against his fence in the backyard. Then the images change. Of Sherlock tenderly holding his limp looking self in his arms. Looking sad. Oh god. Had he died? His brother’s mouth is moving – whispering ‘I am too selfish to let you go, My – I… am sorry.’. His brother’s mouth is suddenly at his throat, drinking. And then Sherlock raises his wrist to his mouth and slashes at it with his teeth – letting vampiric blood drip from the wound. He offers it to him – and Mycroft drinks and drinks as his life depends on it. 

And then suddenly he is forced back into the now. The present. They are no longer in the foyer. But Mycroft’s childhood bedroom. Sherlock is completely naked, and lying beside him in the bed. Mycroft can feel his own cum drying on his belly, and the familiar empty feeling in his bottom. He hadn’t even realized he had orgasmed. But he feels slow and sated. His brother is watching him carefully. Is this a sign of the future? Mycroft wonders. That vision. Who did it come from? Himself? Sherlock? The both of them? 

“What would Mummy think?” Sherlock changes the topic, and Mycroft catches sight of the jewelry adorning Sherlock’s beautiful abdomen. 

“I think she might be a little shocked.” Mycroft replies, going along with his instinct to brush kisses against Sherlock’s midriff. 

“Just a little?” Sherlock smiles. 

Mycroft touches his brother’s flesh. It’s warm now to the touch. Soft. Human. Perfused by his own blood. 

“She might die of a heart attack.”

“Mm…” Sherlock’s breath hitches a little when Mycroft pulls lightly at his belly ring with his mouth. 

“You should just stay naked, little brother.” Mycroft suggests. “I love looking at you.”

“I know. You also like me clothed too. You are attracted to me. Perhaps, even before when I left London. Buckingham.” Sherlock deduces. “Ah, you didn’t know that?”

“I must confess. No.” Perhaps, he had been then. He had looked. At his brother’s beautiful bottom. 

“Naughty.” Sherlock leans over to kiss him. “But you have a nice arse too, Mycie. Your trousers seem to get tighter with every year, I swear.” 

Mycroft whimpers when Sherlock pecks at his neck. “Oh god, Lock – I am middle-aged –”

“Oh, nonsense. Thralls can always get it up for their vampires.” Sherlock waves away his protest. “We will have lots of sex for Christmas. But with breaks of course. I think you would like an orgasm you can remember, right?”

“God.” 

Mycroft could feel his cock stiffening again under Sherlock’s continued abuse over his neck. And he lets the euphoria consume him when his brother’s hand drops to his cock, and starts pumping away. 

* ** *

It’s easily the happiest holiday break that Mycroft has ever had. 

There had been the sex. Lots of it. In positions that Mycroft hadn’t even known existed. But what Mycroft had liked the most was cuddling up with a post-coital Sherlock in bed. Enjoying his affection. His attention. The thrall in him had delighted in giving Sherlock so much pleasure. There’s something calming about submission, Mycroft has come to realize. Letting Sherlock look after him. Control him. Use him for their mutual pleasure. Sherlock had always been careful, Mycroft had come to realize. Making sure that Mycroft enjoyed every second of it. Never hurting him by accident. Never taking too much blood. 

They go for walks outside. Usually during sunset or sunrise. Enjoying their tramps out in the snow. Walking the property that had once been their kingdom as children. Reminiscing about happier times. Sherlock talks about Redbeard. Their beloved dog. They skate on the frozen lake. Go sledding on the hills. His brother makes him spiced cocoa along with many other delicious things from the groceries that Mycroft had gone and gotten during the day. 

In the living room, they had set up a Christmas tree. Determined to have a happy non-pretentious holiday without ghastly relatives underfoot. They play board games that they had enjoyed as kids. Sherlock talks about his regrets at not being able to deal with Mycroft’s absence when he had gone to university. His brother had felt so alone. With parents that didn’t understand him. People who picked on him for being different. Being unable to assimilate with the rest of the goldfish. 

It’s the days that are more tricky. The first sunrise, Sherlock had taken a spare mattress downstairs to the cellar which could be locked. Mycroft had stayed till he had gone to sleep, stroking his curls. The second sunrise, Mycroft had tried napping beside his brother – but found it too disturbing – as his brother had no pulse. No respirations. No signs of life. It was very discomforting. It had been too much of a reminder that his brother is deceased. Sherlock had comforted him when he had woken up that night, telling Mycroft that he would always be there for him. No matter what choices he made.

On the last night they have in their parents house, Sherlock tells him.

“I love you.” 

“Do you now?” Mycroft replies, in happy surprise.

“Of course. I thought you would like to hear that. I wanted to tell you when I was certain of my feelings. I just wish I had more to offer you, brother mine – instead of a love in the darkness. And danger to your mortal life. You offer me so much. Salvation for one. A reason to continue. Just as much as you would do anything for me. I would do anything for you. Almost.” Sherlock says dejectedly. 

“Just being with you, Lock – it’s everything.” Mycroft can feel his own eyes welling with tears.

“I am glad we had this time together.”

“We will steal more time in the days to come.”

Sherlock smiles sadly. “It is stolen time, indeed.” From the folds of his pocket, he offers Mycroft a vial. Blood. Vampiric blood. “Take this, brother mine. If you are ever gravely injured, you can buy yourself a little time.” 

Mycroft opens his mouth, but then closes it. He doesn’t want to argue with his brother on this last day about Turning. Sherlock has been rather obstinate. 

He takes the vial of precious vampiric blood. 

* ** *

His first day back at work is uncharacteristically busy. Mycroft spends an hour calming a distraught Lady Smallwood, who is rather insistent that Magnussen must have left something behind to tarnish her late husband’s reputation. He puts out minor fires set by the Cabinet. He meets with a few important people. Provides his input for several projects. Otherwise, dealing with the usual bread and butter that made up his job. 

And finally, late in the evening, his last appointment comes in. 

He’s immediately on edge. That ominous feeling of dread is curdling in his stomach. 

A man walks in. In the suit that his agents typically wear at the office. 

Agent Richards. 

He walks with slow deliberate steps after closing the door with a click. There is something wrong here. The eyes. 

Mycroft slides his hand into one of his drawers, and finds what he’s looking for. 

Fuck. Why did he send Anthea home an hour ago? And this isn’t Richards. He knows his agents. Especially the ones who had been involved in Sherlock’s final mission.

The man laughs heartily. “Oh. You  _ are  _ good. I’d wondered, you know. What he saw in you. Of course.” 

He sits up, and Mycroft recognizes him. 

Oh bloody hell. 


	7. Chapter 7

“What can I do for you?” Mycroft dons the mantle of the ‘Iceman’, cloaking his seriously rattled nerves. 

“Wrong question.” The man leans forward. The scent of expensive cologne is heavy on his body. Not that it was necessary, vampires typically smell of the products they used. His words are measured. Calculated. “What you should be asking is what I can  _ do _ for you, Mycroft.”

“Nothing. Why are you here?” Mycroft idly plays with the dark cylindrical object he had retrieved to relieve his stress beneath his desk. A poor balm. “Magnus.” 

“Ah. I knew that you would be worth a visit.” The Ancient gazes upon him with great interest. 

The Ancients. That’s what Sherlock had called the handful of vampires who had lived over a millennium and more. 

“Why have you come to London?” Mycroft persists. 

“Do I need a reason to come visit?” At Mycroft’s dubious look, he says. “I am merely an interested party. Checking up on my fledgling. Imagine my surprise to learn that he has taken a thrall after lambasting me for taking servants of my own. It’s caused quite a stir in the covens around here. Having a vampire flaunt his disregard for their sacred rules with such flagrancy. Knowing that there is very little that they can do about it. And to learn that he has corrupted his brother of all things?”

“You are mistaken.” Mycroft says rather coolly. “You see, but you do not understand.”

“Really?” Magnus clasps his perfectly manicured fingers together. 

He looks at Mycroft again. His brown almost golden eyes seem to dissect him. Like Sherlock’s, they are glassy – even more so than his. Like jewels twinkling in the light. 

Those eyes had been the giveaway. Magnus has clearly partaken tonight, although he hasn’t drank enough to hide his vampiric qualities completely. But granted, the only reason why Mycroft had been able to pick up on it is because of Sherlock.

“Fascinating.” Magnus says after a long moment. “You care deeply for your brother. You love him. You chose to be his thrall. You would make a powerful fledgling, Mycroft. And you would last. You would be content to watch the passage of time, tweaking events as you please. Guiding the cyclic rise and fall of civilizations. Empires. With your genius. But hm…” Magnus looks at him again. “You would also be satisfied to be your brother’s companion. His lover. You asked to be Turned. He refused. An intriguing situation. One that I am unfamiliar with. I Turned my first love against his will. He was also my first thrall. It didn’t end well. Seldom do human/vampire relations end happily.” 

“Why are you telling me this?” 

“Because I can Turn you, Mycroft. If Sherlock won’t. Human lives are short. There is no guarantee of a tomorrow. You know this. I know he has given you that vial of blood that sits within the secret compartment of your pocket watch. That silly boy. It would only buy you enough time until you get Turned if you are so grievously injured.”

“Why are you offering this? To me?”

“Because your brother intrigues me. I’ve seen humans for millennia now. A complicated creature, your Sherlock. Rational, intelligent – our so called functional sociopath. And on the flip side... Loyal. Gallant. Would do anything for the ones he cares about. I followed him on his journey to eliminate the vast empire the late Jim Moriarty had built up. It didn’t hurt that he looked like my first love. I couldn’t resist. It has been at least a thousand years since I Turned another. I wanted to preserve the beauty I saw –”

“Enough.” Mycroft could feel the fury ignite within him. He refuses to give into his urge to slam his fist against his desk. Hell would he ever want to get Turned by this vampire. He sees Sherlock of the first night at Baker Street. The sadness in his eyes. The resigned and defeated look on his dear face when Mycroft had finally learned of his brother’s fate. He doesn’t give a fuck that this creature could kill him in a blink of an eye. His voice is frigid. “Get out. Now.”

Magnus doesn’t look offended at all. Amused. Impressed rather. He stands up and gives a little bow before delivering his parting lines. “Think about it, won’t you? I would hate for Sherlock to throw himself into the Sahara in the case of your untimely death.” 

“Go.” Mycroft points the object in his hand toward the vile Ancient as threateningly as he could. 

The Ancient leaves without another word, closing the door quietly as he goes. 

Mycroft collapses back into his chair, feeling like he has lost ten years of his life. 

* ** *

He runs, using what is left of the adrenaline from his encounter with the damned Ancient. 

His feet pound out the kilometers on the treadmill. God. He could have died and no one would have known the cause. Well. Except Sherlock. But then Magnus hadn’t been out to kill him. Like Sherlock, the Ancient put little into the traditions and laws of the vampires. Mycroft believed him, that the Ancient had come to London to see Sherlock. Another concerned party. Not that Sherlock had any desire to meet the vampire who had begotten him. 

Damn. Little brother attracts the most burdensome of creatures. Dr. Watson. Moriarty. Now old vampires that have witnessed the rise and the fall of countless empires.

He runs until he can run no more. Panting, he grasps at the rails before grabbing the towel and wiping the copious amounts of sweat off his face and neck. 

Where is Sherlock tonight? He wonders. 

It’s only been two days since they had parted ways. Yet, it feels like he hasn’t seen his brother in an eternity. The longing within him is intense. Making itself known when Mycroft has idle time to twiddle his thumbs. 

Mycroft makes his way upstairs. 

Another workday looms ahead. Agent Hargreaves will want his input for the case of the bloodless corpses. That man is a tenacious one. Once he has a lead, he would sniff it out to the bitter end. No amount of dissuasion from his part would put him off. It’s not a meeting he is looking forward to. His instincts tell him this case will not end happily. Who knows how many vampires are hidden within London! Several hundred is Mycroft’s estimate. If not a thousand. An interspecies(?) war, or rather a war with the undead is probably the last thing the United Kingdom needs. Especially if the majority of the vampires have been following the rules to allow them to peacefully coexist with humans without raising suspicion for centuries. Well, that is if they ever find any tangible proof that vampires exist. 

Sometimes he wonders what is the point of his place in the government. His job is to be a consultant. To provide solutions to difficult problems. Optimize processes. Offer advice. Consolidate data and spit out practical objectives. Clean up political and Royal family scandals. Manipulate people into doing the right thing. His tasks are numerous. Like cleaning out the Augean stables. Mucking shit for days. Especially when people don’t take his words seriously the first time around. 

He’s long accepted that no one will ever see the big picture. All the goldfish have their own set of short-sighted priorities. Their own agendas. It’s a marvel that the government hasn’t fallen apart yet. And the uphill battle seems to get harder every day. The rich and powerful happy to make decisions to keep the status quo at the expense of the future. 

He shivers when a familiar hand touches his shoulder. 

“Only I am allowed to have existential crises, Mycroft.” 

“Ha.” Mycroft snorts. 

“You’ve been running.” Sherlock turns to look at him. 

An undercut today. Cashmere jumper. A pair of jeans. Simple and comfortable. Makes him look approachable. He had blood from somewhere else. His eyes are soft and filled with concern. 

Mycroft lets an arm wrap around Sherlock’s waist. His brother goes readily, letting his warm face brush against Mycroft’s cheek. They kiss. A simple welcoming peck. 

“Lactic acid.” Mycroft replies knowingly when Sherlock wrinkles his face slightly. His brother had taken a sip of his blood in that kiss. 

“Nasty stuff.” Sherlock says, sniffing at Mycroft’s neck anyways. 

“It will go away within minutes.” 

“Mm… But I like the scent. It’s very masculine. Human. What’s this? Ah.” Sherlock looks thoughtful. “So he is here then. In London. Of course he couldn’t let me be.” He then chuckles darkly. “Oh, Mycroft – you never fail to amaze. Telling someone far more powerful than I to get out. And what’s that thing you were holding in your hand? A laser? Resourceful big brother. Useful against the covens, but useless against the Ancients. You might give him a second-degree burn at most, but that’s about it. But careful brother dear, for Magnus – defiance seems to be his fetish. Oh.” Sherlock seems surprised. “He offered to Turn you? For my sake? God. Brother –”

“I said no.”

“No, you told him to get out.” Sherlock corrects him. “That’s different. He’s not touching you. I won’t have it.” Sherlock almost growls. 

“No one is touching me besides you.” Mycroft says placatingly. 

“And that’s how things should stay.” Sherlock envelops Mycroft with his arms, hugging him tight. “I don’t have any information about the covens, unfortunately. I saw these vampires out and about when I was looking for a drink, but my ability to read thoughts from afar only extends to humankind. I am curious though to see how this Agent will tackle this problem of his. But if he starts coming after the vampires, brother – I am afraid you are going to be an easy target.”

“They would risk your vengeance.”

“Yes. But Mycroft – not everyone sees like we do. Even I don’t see the big picture as clearly as you do.”

“Stay with me then, Lock.”

“You couldn’t even bear to stay in the same room as me when I sleep.”

“It’s something to get used to.” 

“I don’t like making you unhappy. Or uncomfortable. Sometimes…” Sherlock sighs. “I wonder who really is the thrall in this relationship.”

“Does it really matter, little brother?” 

“I guess not.” Sherlock agrees. 

“The basics of our relationship is like everyone else’s. Give and take, Sherlock.” 

“You always give, and I always take.” Sherlock says quietly. 

“That’s not true.” Mycroft’s tone comes out harsher than he had intended. He sits down on the couch, and pulls his brother downward. Sherlock goes along with it, tumbling into Mycroft’s lap. 

“Your care. Your money. Your affection. Protection from the consequences of my actions. Now. Your blood, your security, your independence – perhaps… even your life.” 

The mood that has fallen between them. It is somber. Mycroft doesn’t like it. It reminds him of the first night he had found Sherlock. Contemplating his humanity. Talking of ending it all. Sherlock’s life is still life. Just with different needs. Precious and essential to Mycroft. As little brother has always been. 

Mycroft had always dreamed for them to mend their relationship. To be close. As they had been as children. 

Of course, he had never imagined this. His life had been stagnant in many ways over the past few years. Or maybe even decade. Sherlock can call it a midlife crisis, but Mycroft ironically has never felt more alive in his brother’s presence. He wants to spend millenia with Sherlock by his side. There’s so much they could do together. The possibilities are endless. Doesn’t Sherlock see? It’s not necessary to be tethered to humanity. Hell. Sherlock had told him that with the passage of time, vampires need less and less blood to sustain themselves. And the blood doesn’t even have to be human! 

But only if his brother wishes it. Mycroft would not accept being Turned by anyone else. But then… Magnus’ offer still lingers in his mind. It will be forever a temptation. His brother would be pissed at him, but alas anger goes away, death is permanent. 

He hugs his brother close to him. Sherlock’s head falls to his shoulder. He could do this. Give his brother comfort on these darker days. His fingers comb gently through the mop of curls on the top of Sherlock’s head. This was a privilege Mycroft hadn’t had when Sherlock had been human. And he knew Sherlock had these grim gloomy moods even back then. 

Eventually he presses his brother’s face to his neck, and he feels those fangs pierce his neck. Oddly, there isn’t anything sexual about this like the previous times. Yet, the familiar pleasure of having Sherlock drink his blood makes itself known, and it fills him with comfort. The amount of lactic acid in his blood should have cleared significantly by now. His fingers continue to run through his brother’s locks. 

His brother pulls away a few minutes later. Sherlock had clearly drank very slowly – trying to prolong the intimacy. 

“I love you.” Sherlock says quietly. “Yet. These words seem so inadequate to describe what I really feel for you, Mycie. I know I said this before, so forgive me for the redundancy –”

“No. I will never tire of hearing it from you.”

“I will be okay.” Sherlock adds. He then gently cups Mycroft’s stubbled cheek. “I am sorry for being such a depressive presence at the end of your long day.” He kisses him. “You haven’t eaten since noon. Mycroft…!”

“I must confess my appetite had fled when Magnus made his appearance.”

“Go shower, Mycie – I will go make something for you.”

“You don’t have to –”

“Mycie –” Sherlock deliberately nuzzles at his neck, activating that current of need that hadn’t been there earlier. “Obey your vampiric overlord.” He demands half-jokingly. “And maybe I might take care of that.” Blue-green eyes look down toward Mycroft’s cock.

“God. You are a piece of work, Sherlock.” 

His brother smiles cheekily at him. “It’s the least I can do.”

Sighing, Mycroft goes. 

* ** * 

“Mm…” Sherlock sighs when Mycroft pushes him down onto the bed.

Their bed. Mycroft thinks. 

He has shaved and showered. Sherlock had made him dinner. A tender beef stroganoff with mushrooms and egg noodles and a mandarin salad. His brother had also given him a few fingers of his favourite scotch. A treat. Sherlock had said. God. Mycroft had given up all his other vices, leaving Sherlock as his only one. The alcohol had gone straight to his head even though he had sipped the precious tumbler of scotch slowly, augmenting the residual pleasurable chemicals that Sherlock had left earlier in his system. It’s incredible how fast he had lost his tolerance to alcohol.

They share a lazy kiss. Long and languid. As much as Mycroft would like to take the opportunity to take apart this pliant version of Sherlock, the taxing day is finally beginning to take its toll on him. Sherlock senses this immediately. He flips them over. Gently, he presses kisses against Mycroft’s face and neck, nipping lightly at that special spot. Mycroft sighs, feeling his cock react in the most predictable fashion. 

“God. Lock.” He murmurs. “Please.”

Sherlock smiles fondly down at him. 

“Patience. As you’ve always liked to say to me.” 

“You are a horrible tease.” 

“Mm… you are too coherent for my liking, thrall. Let me make you… forget.”

“Well – mpph!” Mycroft moans when Sherlock suddenly engulfs his cock in his warm divine mouth. His brother is so damned good at it. Sucking cock. And blood. He giggles at the thought. Oh dear. Perhaps he’s drunker than he thinks he is. 

But still, watching the motions of Sherlock’s throat as he navigates around Mycroft’s prick is probably one of the wonders of the world. The universe. His brother’s hands reach around to cup Mycroft’s bum, encouraging him to thrust deeper into Sherlock’s throat. A finger lightly brushes against his tightly furled hole. 

God. Fuck. Mycroft holds his curses in. It’s insanity. How much he needs this. Needs Sherlock to claim him, fuck him when just weeks ago he had found the idea questionable. As much as he had willingly gone along with the consequences of being his brother’s thrall, the dominant aspects of his person makes a protest here and there. His brother hums around his cock and when his cunning fingertip toys with the rim of his hole, Mycroft cries out and cums hard. 

“Sh… brother mine.” Sherlock covers him with fond kisses. “Let me take care of you. Mm… my hardworking man – cleaning up the Augean stables hm? Sounds messy. Shitty even.” He grins as he takes the time to pull off Mycroft’s silky pyjama top. “So handsome. So delicious.” 

His brother’s hands, mouth and even teeth take the time to explore Mycroft’s front, injecting some of those potent chemicals here and there in strategic locations. Mycroft writhes in pleasure, losing himself to the sensations that Sherlock evokes in him.  _ A mindless thrall. _ The thought passes through his mind. 

All he could do is feel. He can feel his brother repositioning him, kissing his nape. Running his fingers down his back with the barest hint of nails. Worshiping his shoulders, working through knots that have formed over the course of the day. He could hear Sherlock crooning various words praising him in his silky voice. The words wash over him meaninglessly, but he could catch the gist.  _ Relax. Give in. Submit to me. Beautiful. _ But more importantly, Mycroft feels love. The affection is so intense that he could almost feel the tears forming in his eyes. He feels something nudge at his thighs. They immediately part. Little sighs escape him when Sherlock wraps his arms around his torso and nips at his neck once more. He almost collapses when something hot and wet finally breaches his needy orifice, almost sobbing with the pleasure of it all. 

“Sherlock… please.” He whimpers pleadingly. “Please-please-please…”

“Shh… let me look after you, Mycie. Mm… you taste so good. God. So tight for me.” Slick fingers have replaced the tongue, quickly working him open. “I will give you what you crave.” 

“Lock…” Mycroft can’t even recognize the mess of garbled syllables that had just left his throat. He’s rutting against air, desperate for anything to fill him. The only thing he knows is this burning need for Sherlock to do something. Something he can’t even verbally put into words anymore. 

And he can feel something filling him again. Thick, long and warm. Warmed with his own blood. God. Nothing has ever felt so right. So good. He is allowed to ride this moment of euphoria before something sharp bites down hard against his neck. There is a scream and then it all goes dark. 

* ** *

Memories. He’s floating in a sea of them. It’s comforting. Warm. Almost a religious experience. So peaceful. Each one a bubble surrounding him. He spots a much younger version of himself cradling a little Sherlock while humming an improvised lullaby. A little Sherlock running about in a flower garden, causing havoc wherever he went. A Lock barely on the cusp of adolescence sitting next to him under an old oak tree. The two of them are talking about something, before Mycroft reaches over to touch his brother’s cheek and kiss his forehead. The summer before Mycroft had left for university. How close they had been! The zenith of their relationship when they had both been alive. 

The two of them standing outside somewhere. Oh in Mummy’s backyard, each smoking a fag. Sherlock could be no less than twenty. A temporary truce as they could no longer endure the houseful of intolerable relatives. A Sherlock lying against his shoulder, looking awful. Withdrawal. Despair. Mycroft’s horror that his brother had done this to himself. Where did it all go wrong? He had often asked himself. But the bubbles pop one by one, and then there is the memory of the last time Mycroft had seen his brother… alive. They had reconciled somewhat to tackle Moriarty. Sherlock had hugged him. And if Mycroft had known the future, he would have hugged his brother tighter and never let him go. 

Then there is that memory of their night at Baker Street. His poor Lock sitting on the floor, surrounded by every sort of recreational drug known to man. And perhaps… vampire. Sherlock holding him the night of the vampiric invasion of his house, rocking him gently as he sobbed. Sharing a sunset with his Lock naked. Memories of their Christmas together. The two of them lying on the floor, playing checkers under a Christmas tree that they had put up. Him sitting on Sherlock’s old childhood bed, gently stroking his brother’s curls as he falls into his daytime slumber on the last day of their holiday getaway. The simple want that little brother had asked for.

And the memory of now. Of how Sherlock had awoken the thrall in him with a few simple touches. Seeing himself losing himself to the throes of a pleasure that never got old. It’s almost scary how different he looks. His cold blue eyes have darkened and look completely blissed out. His face scrunching in agonizing pleasure. How wantonly his hips buck! Him sobbing for Sherlock for the release he craved so desperately. The well-put-together ‘Iceman’, putty in his brother’s hands (and fangs). The way Sherlock looks at him. Touches him as if he is precious. Beautiful. As if he’s the reason for all that’s good in the world. And then how his body simply goes limp when Sherlock bites him again.

“Mycie?” 

Sherlock’s voice seems to echo all around Mycroft.

“Mycie… Mycie…?” 

Sherlock. Mycroft thinks. 

And he slowly becomes aware of a warm body curled up against his. Sherlock’s naked, blood-warmed body. He feels slow and sated. Clean too. Sherlock had wiped off his emissions from his belly at some point. Mycroft had never thought he was the ‘cuddling’ type of person, but apparently he is. He inches closer to Sherlock, resting his head against his brother’s chest. Lub-dub. Lub-dub. Lub-dub. The heart beats steadily. Calmly. As if it had never been dead. His brother’s flesh is soft. Human. Sherlock must have indulged a lot before he had come here tonight, adding the pint or so he had taken from Mycroft to his body. If he closes his eyes, he could pretend Sherlock had never died. 

Fingers lightly caress his scalp. His brother doesn’t speak, but words slip into Mycroft’s mind. 

_ My body might be dead, Mycie. But I am not.  _

“I know.” Mycroft whispers tiredly. “And I am glad for that.”

_ Perhaps the concept of a soul isn’t so foolish. Or the vampiric blood preserves my neural circuits, allowing me to still be me. I guess it really... It doesn’t matter.  _

Sherlock’s fingers continue to comb through Mycroft’s hair. Mycroft lets himself sink deeper, almost feeling like he could purr in contentment. 

_ It’s strange. Isn’t it? That I… as a vampire… I learned… love? I was lamenting my humanity, and you… big brother… came along. Rather forced your way into my existence…  _

Mycroft weakly chuckles at that. “Couldn’t… couldn’t let you go out into the sun…”

Soft lips are brushing against his forehead. Gentle kisses. Affectionate ones. Mycroft sighs, wrapping his arms around his Lock. 

_ Mon amour. My precious. My reason. _

_ You are everything, Mycroft. _

_ Mine. _

His brother’s arms readjust their positions so that Sherlock is spooning him. Mycroft only wishes that this moment could last forever. 

_ Sleep. _

* ** *

“Sir?”

“Yes, Anthea?” 

Mycroft drops his pen to give Anthea his full attention. His PA possesses a poker face that she has mastered through the years, but today she looks somewhat nervous.

“About Agent Hargreaves –”

“Has he decided to postpone the –”

“No, he and his partner were attacked last night.”

“Oh?” Mycroft clasps his fingers together. This doesn’t sound good. Agent Hargreaves and Agent Hammond had been tasked to investigate the mysterious blood-drained corpses. From the previous reports, the agents had been tracing the last movements of their victims. Doing a background check on all their victims. One of the victims is still a Jane Doe. And all the others were people that no one would have noticed immediately if they had disappeared. “Do go on.”

“Hammond didn’t make it. Hargreaves… well he managed to escape. He’s in the infirmary. He’s already given his report to Lady Smallwood about his misadventure.”

Oh dear. Incompetent vampires. Couldn’t even finish the job. Mycroft shakes his head. “What of Hammond’s remains?” He asks cautiously.

“A search team was sent but Hammond’s body was nowhere to be found. Nothing interesting of note at the scene of the crime.” 

“I suppose they will want my input?” Mycroft sighs. 

“You know it, sir.” Anthea smiles at him. “I think they plan to schedule the meeting at fourteen hundred hours. Just giving you a warning.” 

“Thank you, Anthea.” Mycroft then looks at her closely. “What is your opinion on this case? Between you and I?” 

“It’s all very perplexing, sir. The victims. Drained of all their blood. No signs of trauma. Found in forgotten corners and bins of London. All of them had a smile on their face. Your brother may have found such a case intriguing.”

Mycroft sighs again, putting on a more melancholic air. “Perhaps. I think he would like his scenes a bit more bloody.”

Anthea smiles sympathetically. “I think you are right. I am not a fanciful woman by any means, but my brain seems to favour some fantastical hypotheses. Things like magic. And even the old classics. Like vampires –”

“Do you know the nature of the attacks on the agents, Anthea?”

“I am afraid not. This was information passed on from Xavier, sir. Lady Smallwood’s new PA. You will have to learn the details at the meeting.”

“I was afraid of that. How goes the search for a new assistant?” Mycroft asks cautiously – knowing that this fiasco has been a sore spot for Anthea. They had finally fired the previous assistant after Magnussen had been so easily dispatched. 

“Terrible.” Anthea grumbles. “I have two more candidates to vet tomorrow.”

Without another word, Anthea strides out – closing the door with a slightly louder than usual noise. 

* ** *

Sherlock is already waiting for him when Mycroft steps into the foyer. 

His back is facing him. The suit jacket emphasizes his broad shoulders and tapered hips. There is a glimpse of those glorious buttocks peeking out underneath. His curls are wild today, spilling down his shoulders. He turns his head slightly. His brother hasn’t fed in a while. Maybe more than a day. His skin is sunkissed, but his features have never been so angular, so marble-like to Mycroft. There is an unearthly translucence to his skin. His gem-like eyes soften a bit when Mycroft approaches. Inclining his head a little as if to better parse out the events of his day, which Mycroft still hasn’t processed yet. God. That meeting with Smallwood and Hargreaves. Is his brother mad that Mycroft would be forced to work against the vampires?

Those plush lips give a little smile. 

Mycroft walks closer, feeling the cold radiate from Sherlock’s body. Or rather his body sucking the heat from the rest of the space around him. 

_No need to be afraid._ _Dearest. I know it’s been a few days._

“Why…?”

“I had an argument with a vampire.” Sherlock frowns slightly. 

“Magnus…” Mycroft deduces. He inquires cautiously. “Did he… did he hurt you?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “Had to track him down. He was in Italy. Bloody bastard.” There is a brief flash of anger on his features. “Told him to stay away from you. Told him… not to ruin you as he had ruined me. He said I was a fool. That humanity is a false illusion. That our existence is no less moral than that of a human. That the cycle of life and death shouldn’t be held in high regard.” He sighs. “I am sorry, brother mine. Magnus just riles me up. I think he’s just bored.”

The separation of a few days makes Mycroft feel awkward. Not to mention how unhuman Sherlock looks right now. The resignation on Sherlock’s face gives way to sadness. 

“Lock.” Mycroft puts aside his reservations and dares to embrace his frigid brother. 

_ You can’t even stand me in this state. _

“No. We’ve been apart too long.” Mycroft brushes his cheek against Sherlock’s trying not to flinch at the ice. “And this is the first time I’ve seen you like… this.”

“I haven’t tasted blood in a week, big brother. Sometimes.” Sherlock pauses for a moment, before saying. “I fast for a bit. When I was a fledgling, the need for blood was unbearable. Like a human gasping for air when they cannot breathe. Now, it’s more of a want.” He admits reluctantly. “And I drink for your benefit.”  _ I know you find me...  _

“Lock.” Mycroft interrupts his brother. “I don’t find you repulsive. I would never. You know that I am telling you the truth. Look at me, brother mine.” 

Sherlock does. His orbs look into Mycroft’s eyes for what feels like eons, even though at most a few minutes have elapsed. Finally, he sags into Mycroft’s arms, appearing to accept his words. Mycroft only wishes that he could access Sherlock’s mind aside from relying on his deductions. Despite the warm wool of his clothes, Sherlock’s body leeches heat from him. 

He remembers Agent Hargreaves’ proposal to look for vampires via the latest thermal imaging technology. 

The man had put forth his plans at the afternoon meeting with determination. Hammond and Hargreaves had been ambushed near a nightclub that one of the victims had liked to frequent. Two vampires. They had been strong, but when one of the vampires had pinned down Hargreaves and sank its teeth down – Hargreaves had momentarily lost himself. 

> "Hammond and I… we were ambushed. In the alleyway. Neither of us saw them coming. All of a sudden I was pinned to the brick wall. It was all so quick. Impossibly so. There were three distinct sensations I remember. How cold the body pinning me down was! A sharp sensation of pain. And then…" The Agent had trailed off. Mycroft could see him reliving the pleasure and intimacy of the vampire’s kiss, unable to put his experience into words. Hargreaves is a typical old-school-tie Brit with the expected ability to discuss matters of pleasure. The Agent clearly had no wish to say that it was the most glorious sensation he had experienced in his life. "I saw things in my mind. My parents." Hargreaves had appeared somewhat lost. "My childhood. My sister. You know, they are all dead, but still… it felt so real. Like a good dream. It made no sense, but – oh never mind. I felt myself awakening, and my reflexes kicked in. I kicked the man who was pinning me down, and he surprisingly went down. He hadn’t been expecting it. I felt light-headed, weak and somehow – I managed to stumble the metres back to the main street. I couldn’t… couldn’t communicate with Hammond no more, and I requested backup and nothing was ever found of him by our people. Not even his equipment! Not even his tracking chip could be located. Like he vanished off the face of the Earth! They took me to the infirmary after. They said I was anemic. The type of anemia associated with acute blood loss. And my neck, where I felt the sharp pain… it was unmarked! Yet, when I touch it – I can still feel queer sensations take over my body… They want me to go back to the infirmary after this meeting. To do a better workup to see if there’s any other aftereffects."

Mycroft pushes the memories aside for a moment. He has a more pressing job right now. 

He conjures up all the affection he could muster in his thoughts and gently presses kisses against his brother’s curls. He would like to press Sherlock’s fangs into his neck, but considering the reason for why his brother is distraught, perhaps that would be an insensitive thing to do… 

But Sherlock turns his neck slightly and lets his incisors light graze against Mycroft’s neck. Queer sensations. Hargreaves had described it. Those same sensations were tingling down his own nerves, and Mycroft sighs. He hasn’t had this for a week. Perhaps it had said a lot when he had felt a tad jealous when Hargreaves had mentioned his experience with the vampire’s kiss.  _ Have me. _ He thinks as loudly as he could. _ Please. Use me. As I was intended. _

Sherlock smiles slightly against his neck.  _ Is that the thrall in you, brother? Or you? _

_ Does it really matter? _

“Guess not.” Sherlock murmurs, before kissing the skin, letting his lips close against the soft flesh and sucking it into his slightly warmer mouth. 

Mycroft shivers. Partially because of the cold. And partly because it feels so good. 

_ I missed you. My most precious Mycie. _

_ Your only Mycie. _

_ Hmph. You are being annoyingly difficult. _

_ Serves you right for leaving without saying anything!  _

Mycroft laments when Sherlock pulls away, leaving only echoes of the pleasurable sensations that Sherlock had been evoking within him. A tear had unknowingly formed and had streaked down his face. That first morning when he had woken up to go to work and found that Sherlock hadn’t made lunch for him had been more devastating than he had expected. He had grown used to the comforts that Sherlock’s presence had provided. And his companionship and love. It had given Mycroft to look forward to. 

He had told himself on the first day that perhaps Sherlock had forgotten, or had something to do. But then there had been the second day and the third. Did Sherlock become bored? Is he mad at him? He had wondered. Or worse? Did Magnus do something to him? Or had he gone out into the sun like he had threatened to weeks ago? The old worry had gnawed at him. And his need. Neither of them understands it, this bond between a vampire and their human. Something about those delightful chemicals that Sherlock injects into him with every bite. And having tasted his brother’s cursed (delicious) blood. 

“God… Mycroft. I am sorry. I didn’t think it would take so long. You know me… when my mind is made up to do something, I have to finish it. See it to the end.” Sherlock says after a long while. 

His brother’s hands reach up to cup his face. Mycroft shivers somewhat at the cold touch, but he leans into the caresses. Deriving comfort that he had needed. He closes his eyes and he whispers the truth. “I need you.”

“I know. I would not abandon you. Dear one.” Sherlock’s breath is warm in contrast to his cold flesh. “You are mine. Mine to look after. I’ve been… remiss. Forgive me?”

Mycroft doesn’t speak. He simply sags into Sherlock’s arms. His brother is holding him now. Tenderly. There are kisses. Icy ones. Although his limbs and body are hard like a statue, his hold on him is gentle. Sherlock nuzzles lightly against his neck. Mycroft almost cries at the touch. The sleepless nights of missing his vampire. Wondering if he would ever have Sherlock to share his love with again. 

“I love you.” Sherlock picks him up. He doesn’t complain, happy to be basking in his vampire’s attention. His brother kisses his cheek again. “I made you dinner. I know you had a very trying few days, Mycie. Don’t worry. Let me take care of you.” 


	8. Chapter 8

“Mr. Holmes.” 

Mrs. Hudson greets Mycroft when he steps into the hallway, having heard the turn of his key at the front door. 

“Mrs. Hudson.” He says quietly, the dim light casting shadows. A contrast to the sunny late January day outside. 

“You’ve come… to break the lease.” Her eyes sharpen. Her words are slow. She looks even older and frailer than when Mycroft had seen her last. Before Christmas. 

“It’s time –”

“Oh Sherlock. My dear boy. Sherlock.” Mrs. Hudson seems to be on the verge of tears. “My brave boy. Taken too soon.” She takes the handkerchief that Mycroft offers her. “Too young. He was too young, Mr. Holmes.” She blows her nose and wipes at her eyes. Blinking, she then says shrewdly, “Why did you change your mind?”

Oh. Mycroft had agreed to pay for the year on a previous visit. He remembers. But Sherlock and he had discussed this. Sherlock had wanted some of his belongings back without attracting suspicion. 

Long story short, it was time to move on. 

“No.” Mrs. Hudson starts again before Mycroft could say a word. Her words are firm as she lists her deduction. “He was alive after he jumped. It was all a trick. A magic trick. John said that. You kept paying the rent because you knew he was alive! You two deceived us all! And now. He’s dead. Oh Sherlock.” 

Mycroft doesn’t say anything. Mrs. Hudson is free to believe as she wishes. Nothing he says will change anything. 

Sherlock is dead. 

And that is final. 

“I will clear out the flat over the weekend. If you should need it, I can give you another month’s rent.”

Mrs. Hudson waves her hand away. “No. I don’t want your money. Sherlock…” She breaks down again, and without another word, she steps into her flat and closes the door. 

Well. That had been more emotional than he had expected. Mycroft sighs. Mrs. Hudson had treated Sherlock like a son all these years with a healthy suspicion toward Mycroft’s motives. 

He walks out of Baker Street, one handkerchief lighter. 

* ** *

“Mycroft.”

“Fancy seeing you here, Dr. Watson.” 

Mycroft examines Sherlock’s old flatmate. Compared to last time, the physician looks much improved. He had kicked the drinking habit to the kerb, gained a few pounds due to the love of his fiancée’s pound cake and is gainfully employed at an unfashionable locum. 

“It’s John.” Dr. Watson doesn’t look at him, but continues to stare at the grandiose marble of Sherlock’s tombstone. He then says quietly as Mycroft had chosen not to reply. “I haven’t been here in a long time.”

“Oh?” 

The only reason why Mycroft is here at the gravestone is that Sherlock had asked him to go sometime this week. Sherlock had wanted to see it. In the daylight. Through Mycroft’s memories, so Mycroft – as usual – had indulged. 

This is not the first time Sherlock had requested him to go to certain places in the daytime, wanting to see certain experiences. Mycroft had gone to Sherlock’s favourite hole-in-the wall dim sum restaurant, strolled up Primrose Hill and accepted a longstanding invitation to one of the Queen’s tea parties (Mycroft does not usually go because the company is usually tiresome). Sometimes Sherlock picks places that Mycroft suspects that Sherlock thinks he would like – knowing that Mycroft would never deliberately go out on his own to enjoy himself. The delicious local chippy near Whitehall, for instance – where someone like Lady Smallwood would never dare set foot in. 

“Yeah. Greg came to see me the other day.” Dr. Watson continues, looking rather like his fiancée had forced him to meet the copper. “He told me what you said. About Sherlock’s sacrifice. That he had done it to save us, rather than… the fact that we all… I guess… failed him. I just wanted to… I don’t know. Say thank you to him? Tell him that he is the greatest man that I’ve ever had the fortune of knowing? I am glad the papers cleared him recently. He isn’t a fraud.” Dr. Watson looks sternly at him. 

“I know.” Mycroft simply says, before laying down the roses that he had brought at the base of the tombstone. He lets his forehead touch the cold marble, and wonders if Sherlock had ever dug down and slept beneath his own gravestone? Probably not, considering the company. Moriarty’s corpse lies down there. “I found the evidence and sent it to the papers. It’s the least I can do for my little brother.” 

“But you – you – got him into the mess in the first place!” 

“We planned it together. Moriarty had to go. And indeed, we accomplished what we set out to do. But… at what cost?”

Dr. Watson is speechless for a long moment. He then looks at the gravestone again and says something that he’s wanted to say for a long time. “It’s appalling. The gravestone. Sherlock would have hated it!” 

Mycroft laughs. “He would have found the humour in it.”

The former flatmate tuts, muttering something that sounds like “Holmeses!” in an exasperated manner, before leaving the gravesite. 

* ** *

“You met John…” Sherlock deduces when they are sitting on Mycroft’s comfortable couch. 

“At your grave.” Mycroft adds, even though he knows there is no need to say it. Sherlock had sensed it from his mind. It’s very difficult to hide anything from his brother unless he simply doesn’t think about what he wants to hide. An almost impossible task. “He said you were a great man. He’s thankful. Glad that your name was cleared.” 

“Thank you… for going.” Sherlock leans forward just a little, his eyes darkening. 

“Of course. Anything for you, little brother.” Mycroft leans in too; they are almost touching. 

“Did you enjoy the pastries from that bakery I suggested?”

“I got egg tarts instead. The baker is Portugeuse. Delightful.” Mycroft sighs when Sherlock kisses his cheek, and lets his fingers caress the sensitive skin of Mycroft’s neck. “I only wish I could share a meal with you, Sherlock.” 

“Me too. One of the pleasures denied to a vampire. Unfortunately. But there’s nothing I like more than to feast on you, Mycie.”

“Mm… you can always feast on me. Ah…” Mycroft sighs when Sherlock replaces his fingers with his lips, gently nibbling at the flesh over his carotid. “Sherlock… please.” 

And Sherlock possesses him, takes control of him – as he does more nights than not. And it’s glorious, feeling the fangs puncture in and out of him while seeing snippets of both his and Sherlock’s memories of the day. Ironically, Mycroft feels the most alive when he’s being the (beloved) plaything of a vampire, and he wouldn’t trade it for the world.

* ** *

The banquet. 

Good god. Mycroft had forgotten all about the damnable affair until Anthea had shown up at his desk with a change of clothes. He had been preparing to go home. To see his lover like everyone else. Sherlock had said he would see him tonight. Fuck duty. Fuck promises. He wants to be with his Lock. Dratted parties. He’s never liked them, but one does not refuse Lord ----’s invitations. 

So, he had reluctantly put on his second-best suit, socialized, deduced the royalty and rabble alike and is now perfecting the art of blending in the shadows. Ha. There’s a vampire joke in there. Somewhere. He can see Lady Smallwood circulating around, and he has no interest in her getting her grateful (thanks to Sherlock’s prompt removal of Magnussen) claws into him for any moment in time. 

It’s too early to make a polite exit. He would have to stay for at least an hour longer. He shuts his eyes, feeling that yearning thrumming within him. That desperate need to be with his vampiric lover. It’s only getting worse as time passes. It is only his legendary control that prevents him from succumbing into a total mess. He would need to have a conversation with Sherlock about this. The endgame of where this all leads. 

He turns to look at the dance floor, and he sees someone approaching him. A lady dressed to the nines. Cocktail dress. Old-fashioned pearls. She looks young. Yet there’s something timeless about the way she dresses. Not Lady Smallwood. He doesn’t recognize this person but there’s something strange about her, sending currents of danger throughout his body. She’s wearing contacts, hiding the true nature of her eyes. Vampire? He thinks warily. It’s hard to tell with her skin colouring. She has Indian ancestry which has given her a natural bronze tone to her smooth skin. 

Pretending that he doesn’t notice her approach, Mycroft keeps to the wall and casually walks away. He will try and make it to the loo. That’s a wise course of action. But he doesn’t get there. 

She stops him at a quiet hallway away from the rest of the party. A shortcut. 

Perhaps in his hurry to leave the crowd, it wasn’t wise to leave the populated space.

“Mr. Holmes. A pleasure.” There’s a dangerous smile on her face. “I’ve been wanting to… meet you. Perhaps… have a talk. A little chat. Alone.”

“I am afraid I am at a disadvantage. I know nothing of you –” Mycroft’s fingers go for his pocket, looking for the laser that he carries on his person at all times. He makes a point of knowing all the partygoers before going to a formal party such as this. Frankly, this is not a good situation to be in. 

“I see. You know. My nature.”

“May I inquire as to why you are here? In a party full –” Mycroft trails off. 

Why is he asking this anyways? Sherlock had said that vampires loved places where people congregate. To feed off their blood without anyone knowing better. 

“Oh no. We have a problem, Mr. Holmes. Your MI5 have begun investigating our existence. It’s a coincidence, isn’t it? That humans know of us when you become known to us.” She looks genuinely pissed off. “That… bloody upstart! Flaunting his power. Breaking all the rules. Sharing our secrets. Taking you as a thrall. He’s trapped you, hasn’t he? And you feel like you need your revenge –”

What? Good god. Are all vampires this stupid?! 

For all their abilities to read human minds! And this isn’t his bloody fault. It isn’t even Sherlock’s bloody fault. But he knows from Sherlock that the ordinary vampires despise him, and it would make sense that they would want to pin their misfortunes on him. 

Apparently, no one seems to know what a thrall is! A true thrall would do their master’s bidding. They would never want to leave! And Mycroft knows that at this stage of his thralldom, if Sherlock asked him to do something, he would not refuse. It’s just that he has a conscientious and loving vampire who would never make such demands upon him that went against his will.

“You are jealous of his power, aren’t you?” Mycroft steps forward. His voice is icy cold. “This has nothing to do with me, and you lot know it. Your covens have grown too comfortable. Your vampires too bold. He told me you know. The tradition of culling the vampires who break the rules which threaten the secrecy of your existence. My lover didn’t kill those bloodless corpses. One of  _ you  _ did, and in your haste to cover up, you let one of the agents get away. In other words, your covens have made a mess of things. Now there’s no way to completely eliminate the knowledge without destroying the entire MI5.”

“You liar.” She steps forward, driving Mycroft back to a room in a deserted corner. “None of us would ever do such a –”

“Now why are you so desperate for this lie to stick? Oh. Because it was  _ your  _ lover who –”

“Shut up.” She hisses, her eyes looking wild despite her contacts. “Shut it! Human. If this ever gets out –”

Mycroft sees the punch coming. 

He turns on the laser just as the fist collides into his chest. She’s too fast for him to avoid. God. The pain. It explodes within his chest. The sickening sound of cracking bone.  _ Sherlock. _ He thinks desperately. He’s not ready to die. This cannot be his end. 

There’s an unholy screech when the laser hits her face as Mycroft uses the last of his energy to keep the weapon in his hand. 

God. He’s fading… and later in his delirious haze, all he hears are voices.

_ Sherlock! _


	9. Chapter 9

“God, I am so sorry. I should have been here earlier, dearest mine.” 

There’s another voice. Calm, collected – the very opposite of Sherlock’s frantic one. “He’s dying. No human intervention is going to save him. Idiot boy, you can do something.”

“Mycroft. Mycie. Can you hear me?”

Mycroft tries to say yes, but his lips aren’t moving. Nothing is coming from his throat. 

“Sherlock. You imbecile!”

“No, no – what are you doing? Magnus! Stop it!” Sherlock’s tone is half-pleading and half-hysterics. 

There is something pressed against Mycroft’s mouth. Something sweet drips into his mouth. Nectar. The most delicious thing Mycroft has ever had on his tongue. 

“Giving you time to come to your senses, fledgling!” 

Somehow Mycroft finds the strength to suck at the flesh that had been offered to him. Vampire blood, his mind tells him – and he drinks and drinks – feeling the excruciating pain go away. His bones and flesh are reknitting themselves beneath his skin. 

He stops at some point, realizing that he’s in a room somewhere. And that the slit wrist he had been drinking from did not belong to Sherlock. 

“This is only temporary, Sherlock – you have to Turn him if you don’t want to lose him.” 

“Magnus…” Sherlock sounds absolutely devastated. 

“I am not going to do that for you. You have to make the decision.” 

An anguished noise emits from Sherlock. It’s quite easily the most heartbreaking sound that Mycroft has ever heard. 

“Mycie.” Sherlock says after a moment. His arms are surrounding Mycroft’s battered body, and he whispers. “I am sorry.”

_ No. Sherlock. Don’t let me – _

“I am too selfish to let you go.” 

Then that familiar sensation of fangs pierces his neck, and Mycroft feels that familiar all-consuming bliss fill him. 

He sees Sherlock standing in front of him in his mind. A sad little smile on his face. This is the image of his brother the day before he had leapt off Bart’s. He had still been alive then. 

Sherlock walks a few steps closer.

_ “I am sorry it has to be like this.” _

_ “On the contrary, this is how it should be.” _ Mycroft finds himself saying.

_ “Ayesha is crazy. Her fledgling, who ought to have known better, was the one responsible for the murders. He’s been a vampire for several decades now. Felix is his name. The coven told her to end him, and she let him go. She lied to the elders. But he just kept killing. You burnt her face to a crisp, Mycroft. Quite impressive. But let’s not waste time on trivial things, hm?”  _

_ “Trivial?” _

_ “Yes. I am drinking you, Mycroft. This is a special time. You can see whatever you want to see, brother mine.”  _

_ “I am seeing what I want to see.”  _ He says hoarsely.  _ “You.” _

_ “This is when I was alive. Your last glance at me as a mortal man.” _ Sherlock looks pointedly down at himself. 

_ “You said you gave visions to your victims.” _

_ “Yes.”  _ Sherlock nods.

_ “Guide me, then. Master.” _

_ “You won’t be my thrall after this, Mycie. Your free will should be returned. If you wish to leave me…” _

_ “No! Never. Sherlock, as you said, we are wasting time!” _

The scene shifts. Mycroft is in the banquet hall again. Dressed in his best suit. The nobility dancing gaily on the floor. Chatter. The sounds of allegiances forming and weaknesses being sought. He picks up a small cup of trifle and digs in. It’s delicious. 

He’s been to many such parties in his life. 

When he had been young – at the nascency of his career, he had been in awe of all the power consolidated in one room. He had worked hard then. Making connections while looking for any advantages he could find to climb the echelons of power. He had made his first acquaintance with the Queen at such an event. Nowadays, these parties are an obligation. To show his face. To remind people that there are shadows dancing behind the pomp and grandeur. For people to seek him out instead of the other way around. Sometimes he would have an escort, depending on the flavour of the party. But yet, he had always felt alone. An institution upon himself. 

He startles when a hand reaches for his own. It is warm, strong, calloused and scarred in areas – but otherwise soft. Sherlock. His brother is wearing a suit too. Looking ever so handsome. 

_ “Hello dearest mine.” _ Sherlock speaks first, his pink lips curling into a fond smile. 

_ “Sherlock. I am surprised you are here.” _

_ “Not my scene.”  _ Sherlock snatches a spring roll from a server passing by. He bites into it.  _ “Your mind led us here. There is the Queen.” _ He points to the head of the table at the far end of the room. She is dressed in a classic pantsuit, and appears deep in conversation with her neighbour. Wearing her favourite brooch.

_ “I am impressed, brother mine.” _

_ “Ah. One does need suitable knowledge when their partner in life was the British Government.” _

_ “I am touched, Lock.”  _ Mycroft finds himself saying rather genuinely.  _ “That you would go out of your way to –”  _

Sherlock eats the rest of his spring roll before turning to him completely.  _ “You look good, dear one.” _

Mycroft’s hand is still in Sherlock’s. There’s an intense gaze in Sherlock’s eyes. His human-like eyes. Beautiful swirls of blue-green-brown. A softness in his face that hasn’t been there since he had been Turned. He is surprised when Sherlock steps closer and uses his free arm to bring Mycroft closer. A kiss. Soft lips brushing against his own. Tender. Sweet. 

No one around them seems to notice.

_ “This isn’t real, Mycie. But perhaps, this is your way of saying… goodbye.” _

Goodbye? To his old life? Perhaps. He looks at the throng of people. There’s Lady Smallwood, Sir Edwin, countless Lords and Ladies that he has been acquainted with, notable diplomats and powerful businessmen. A collective of people with their own interests, colliding in the name of England. A bunch of sharks swimming around a shrinking ocean. Even Mummy and Father stand within the crowd.

Maybe he will miss it a bit. 

But there will be new amusements. 

_ “Or perhaps, Master – that this is how I wanted my evening to end.” _

_ “Sentimental.” _ Sherlock scorns, but his smile takes the bite out of it. 

_ “And only you should know it.” _ Mycroft reaches upward to cup his brother’s face, gently stroking his angular jaw. 

He is jolted out back into reality when his brother pulls his face away. Everything is blurry. Things are spinning. There’s no strength in his limbs. Sherlock supports him with one arm. His brother slashes at the veins and arteries of his free wrist with his fangs, and brings the bloody mess up to Mycroft’s mouth. 

“Drink. Now.”

Again, he sucks at the flesh, drinking every drop of blood his brother has to offer. Like a newborn babe sucking firmly on their mother’s breast. He’s never felt so hungry. His brother drains him again afterward. It’s all hazy. Seeing wisps of memory and fantasy in his brain. Magnus offers his blood when Sherlock is done – and Mycroft at some point had lost track of how many times he had been drained and fed blood until his brother carries him to the loo and puts him in the bathtub. 

Wait, bathtub? 

There isn’t a bathtub in the venue he had been at. Where are they? 

But the question is irrelevant right now. The tub is large and spacious. Sherlock joins him in the tub after having taken off all his clothes. Mycroft is feeling uncomfortably full, filled with blood from both Sherlock and Magnus. His brother undresses him in an unhurried fashion, taking the time to kiss every exposed bit of flesh. There is affection in everything Sherlock does. A stark contrast to Sherlock’s own Turning. 

“It healed well.” Sherlock palpates Mycroft’s chest, feeling his ribs and sternum. 

“And… Ayesha?” Mycroft asks carefully.

There is a cold hard look in Sherlock’s eyes. An icy sort of anger that sends shivers even down Mycroft’s spine. Which had been soft and human earlier. Mycroft doesn’t need to ask what had been done with her. And he remembers Sherlock’s threat to Amir a long while ago. 

> “If I catch any of you fools even looking at him the wrong way, I will find every single member of your coven and destroy them.”

A smirk forms on Sherlock’s face. Perhaps little brother will go carry out his threat. Mycroft finds himself reaching out, grabbing his brother’s wrist.

“I need you. Don’t go.” 

“Hush.” Sherlock gently soothes him. “I am not going anywhere right now. Save your strength Mycroft, you will need it for the hours ahead. It won’t be pleasant.” 

And it isn’t. Fear courses through Mycroft’s body when the first excruciating spasm ripples throughout his body. It is agony and it takes everything for him not to cry out. Sherlock continues to comb through Mycroft’s hair, his soft touch a welcome contrast. 

“You are dying now, brother dear. There’s no dignity in it. It is traditional for the Turned to be let alone at this stage. In respect to the adage that everyone dies alone. As Magnus has so kindly informed me –”

“No!” Mycroft cries out when a cramp afflicts his belly.  _ Please. Don’t leave me. _

“I won’t. I will stay.” Sherlock kisses his cheek. “I promise. Close your eyes, my fledgling.” 

His brother is humming what sounds disturbingly like a lullaby. Like the melodies that Mycroft had used to hum to Sherlock when he had been an infant. It’s oddly comforting. The next hours(?) that pass are awful. The dying pains and his body trying to clear itself of all its waste are a torture that Mycroft had never known. Agony is everywhere. He understands why he had been placed in the tub, as he has lost control of all his bowel and bladder functions at some point. Sherlock tries to do things to make him feel better. Telling little stories. Kisses. Turning on the hot water. But it offers little respite. Sherlock even apologizes, but Mycroft shuts that down quickly. This is something he had asked for. He’s only glad that he’s not dying alone. 

And finally, Sherlock is washing Mycroft’s body, sensing that his death is almost complete after having cleaned up the mess that Mycroft had left behind. With the use of hot water, soap and even hair products. 

Mycroft is exhausted in a way he’s never been before. Well. He is dead now. Or rather undead. The water is shut off, and Sherlock dries them both off with a soft fluffy towel. Surprisingly Sherlock doesn’t dress them, but he carries Mycroft out of the room afterwards. 

Oh. They are in Sherlock’s secret place! How did they even get here? Without him noticing? Mycroft rests his head drowsily on Sherlock’s shoulder. They are in that ‘tomb’ room again, and he can hear Sherlock talking to Magnus. 

Mycroft is so tired that he can’t even make out what they are saying. Nor does he care that he is absolutely starkers. But Magnus is evidently lecturing Sherlock on something, and Sherlock is being himself – not giving a crap to whatever is being said. Oh, Mycroft has experienced this too often to not know what is going on. The Ancient sounds resigned, but bends down to open the pit that served as Sherlock’s resting spot during the day. 

Mycroft feels the sensation of Sherlock lowering them both in the pit. He’s slept with Sherlock in here before, but never as a member of the undead. And never with the door shut. Sherlock lies on the mattress, and rearranges Mycroft so that he is lying facedown on top of Sherlock. Their limbs are entwined, and then he can hear the sound of the secret door being closed. Like being locked into an airtight tomb. Snug and secure. Safe in his brother’s arms.

_ The sun is rising, big brother. Sleep.  _

And he does.

* ** * 

It is dark. He blinks. He blinks again. It is still dark. But yet, details are coming into his brain. The intricate details of the wooden panels in front of him. Hieroglyphs. Or rather, the more abbreviated Hieratic script. To be read from right to left. 

> Behold! Here lies the aberration! The being who has momentarily broken the infinite cycles of life and death! He who has chosen to shun the promised paradise to trod the paths of their mortal selves. He who has made mockery of the gods with his designs of immortality built on consuming the life of what he once was! Ra – King of the Gods, upon discovering this blasphemy to his noblest creation, exiled him and his brethren in a fit of great anger to the void. With the intervention of Ra’s mother, Nut, the goddess who loves all creation, the aberrations were permitted to return and feast when Ra takes leave of the celestial heavens.

Who wrote this? Mycroft ponders. His limbs feel leaden. There is a weariness that pervades throughout his entire body. There is something solid underneath him. Cold. Unyielding. But he finds himself unable to move. His limbs remain inert despite his efforts. He looks at the next panel.

> Set, God of Chaos, looked upon the cherished creation of Ra. He was displeased. The Pharaoh, Osiris – whom Ra made in image of himself – is building a great civilization that rivaled the society of the Gods. A great conceit! In his fit of jealousy, Set set forth a journey to the Land of the Spirits. It is there where he meets Amon – a powerful spirit who has learned to enjoy the taste of blood. Tarred with the same brush, Amon was encouraged by Set to make mischief. In the darkness of the night, Amon steals into the Royal Palace unseen and slips into the slumbering Pharaoh. Osiris wakes up screaming, bleeding from Amon’s feasting. The spirit, very much enjoying having a material form, decides to possess the Pharaoh’s body. That night, Amon lies with Isis, Osiris’ wife, enjoying the pleasures of the flesh. It is from this union that Horus was conceived. Ra, having noticed the trickery or rather the insult to his image, was furious. He was unable to expel the presence of Amon with the use of his priestesses, and resorted to casting Osiris into the Afterlife. However, Isis who loved her husband pleaded for mercy, and Osiris was permitted to return and feast upon her body under the light of the moon after the delivery of her son. 

Two contradictory legends. Vampire origin stories. Mycroft has a feeling that the other panels provide glyphs that run along the same lines. This had been Drago’s quest. To determine the ‘why’ and the ‘how’ of how vampires had come to be. And Sherlock’s contribution to the crypt had been the Periodic Table of the Elements. The building blocks of the Universe. 

And himself? God. He isn’t even human anymore! 

Sherlock. He thinks. The only thing he cares for in this crypt. His brother is beneath him. He is still. No breaths. No heartbeats. And then he becomes aware of it. The great hunger that consumes him. He needs blood. Needs it like air. Well, not really considering breathing isn’t necessary for his existence anymore. There is no need for oxygen to generate energy from his mitochondria. Something about the vampiric blood. Blood is his new air. But vaguely in the back of his mind, he’s aware of how much blood he had drank from his brother. He is reluctant to attack a sleeping Lock. Hunt. He needs to hunt. 

Fuck. Mycroft attempts to crawl off his brother, and ends up slamming himself against the wall of the pit. Ouch. That hurts. Well. Somewhat. He doesn’t know his own strength. Everything he does is an underestimation of his strength. His speed. He moves jerkily like a poorly manipulated marionette. His clumsy moves do not wake his brother, who is still in repose. It’s best to let him be. 

He searches for a hint of how the crypt could be unsealed, for Sherlock must have a way to open it from the inside. He finds a groove, and with a grunt – he tries to push the door open. It doesn’t budge. He tries harder. And harder. And then slowly he can hear the turning of the gears in the old mechanism. It’s slow going, but the door is moving. He has to take a break after a few centimetres. But on the next push, he is able to open it wide enough to crawl out. 

The room is dark. The doors are closed. Blood. Where can he find blood? He sniffs the air. Hm… There is someone else here. Magnus. Curious. Think later. Blood. Blood. He drags himself to the doors and tries the knob. Resistance. He pushes harder, and he realizes there is a thick golden string tying the door handles together. God. What did Sherlock say? 

> Drago also had this habit of tying golden rope around the handles of the doors, as a means to check if anyone tried to disturb his slumber during the day. A strange man. 

Fuck. How is he to open it then? He pushes harder against the doors, the rope giving way slightly. Something sharp. Thin. With a growl, he throws himself upon the doors, feeling the strain in all his muscles, maximizing the space he has to work with. Thinking about his fangs, he drops down and slices the rope with his teeth. Somehow, it works. There is enough slack in the rope. Curiously, he licks at his incisors, and he feels that sharpness of his new anatomic features. Ow. He can taste blood in his mouth. He had inadvertently pierced his tongue. He has to be more careful. But first… blood…! He runs into the hallway, letting his instincts guide him. 

There is music coming from the piano in the living room. Ravel’s Jeux d’eau. Played with an inhuman technical perfection. And speed. But yet, such colour! He could hear the sparkle of each droplet of water, detailing the journey of a mythical body of water. The instrument had been tuned at some point. 

But blood! Mycroft dashes into the living room and without hesitation, sinks his fangs into Magnus’ neck, plunging the piece into discord. Somehow managing to shred each vessel in the path of his fangs. 

A fear courses through him when the Ancient lifts Mycroft’s head up, pulling the fangs out of his neck with ease. His thirst of blood had superseded his usual courtesy. 

Magnus smiles at him in return. Indulgently. Knowingly. Like a cat looking at its clumsy kittens. “Easy, easy – Mycroft. You need to consider the anatomy of the neck. The carotid is what you need to find, fledgling. Use your instincts. Try again.” 

The wounds that Mycroft had inflicted onto the vampire’s neck had vanished. Now that Mycroft has had the time to consider his move, he can feel a magnetic pull guiding him to the best vessels Magnus’ body has to offer. This time, he finds the right artery and reaps his reward. Magnus has fed at some point. Filled himself with an immense amount of human blood. The Ancient had seemed almost bloated. Good god. This is the tastiest sustenance that he has ever consumed. Is it possible for a vampire to not like the taste of blood? He drinks greedily. Magnus’ blood offers power in a way Sherlock’s can not. This is an opportunity he cannot afford to pass up.

Hm. Sherlock had always been able to know Mycroft’s inner thoughts from drinking the blood, but he gets nothing from Magnus’. Vampires are perhaps… immune?

“Ah. Fledgling.” Magnus says, having deduced his thoughts. “Vampires can control what to show through the blood. It’s one of the most intimate acts that can be shared between our kind. Even more so than physical pleasure. Sherlock will be highly upset if I corrupt you with my blood. I leave it to you two to figure things out.”

The Ancient permits Mycroft to drink for another minute, before pulling himself away from the fangs. “That’s enough.”

Momentarily sated, Mycroft takes a moment to remember himself, and he asks. “Why? Why are you doing this for… well us?”

“I am just helping my fledgling find happiness in his existence, Mycroft. I understand I will never earn your brother’s affections, but I do feel a responsibility to give him his raison d’etre. It’s not my intention to be the ‘evil’ that Sherlock perceives me as. Although he will never see that. I will take my leave soon. Sherlock will wake, he will be displeased with my presence. He has already reluctantly accepted my help at the moment most dire.” 

“An archenemy.”

Magnus smiles, revealing a dimple. “Perhaps. You would know best. All my fledglings perished young, Mycroft. They all burned too bright. They all despised me one way or the other at the end. Although Sherlock is the only one that has attempted to end my existence.” At Mycroft’s inquisitive eyebrow, he continues. “He burned one of my properties down while I was resting. I was severely burned, and required much time to recuperate. A month’s rest in the earth. He fled after the arson to finish tackling Moriarty’s network. He was very disappointed to find out I was still amongst the living. He didn’t realize then, the power of the Ancients. I forgave him. I forgive all my fledglings. Even though he would not want my forgiveness. And that he destroyed my favourite villa.” He sighs. “It’s time for me to take my leave. Farewell, Mycroft. Look after each other.” 

The Ancient is gone within the next few seconds – taking a kit filled with piano tuning supplies with him, leaving nothing but a gust of wind and innumerable unanswered questions. 

* ** *

Is this what it is like to be high? 

Mycroft muses as he stares at each detail of the living room. The wallpaper. The grain of the rich wooden floor. The art hanging on the wall. Everything is so much more. He can see colours that he had never known. Vibrant details in the objects that he had once classified insignificant. He could sense the life forms that exist around him. The insects. The realm of things too little to be seen with the naked eye. Some rodents beyond the confines of the flat. He lies on the floor for who knows how long, examining the stucco ceiling. 

He can control it too. He realizes. How much detail he wants to see. It would be too distracting otherwise to function. 

He thirsts. Again. This is intolerable. There’s no ready source of fresh blood anywhere. He walks to the kitchen, as normally as he could. His gait is still uncoordinated. He feels like a newborn giraffe or something, unsure of his limbs. He opens the fridge and finds bags of blood. Freshly stocked. He feasts, tearing bag after bag. Sating this new need. Is it always going to be this bad? Thankfully, after he empties the first shelf, the thirst fades to the background. The refrigerated blood leaves a strange aftertaste in his mouth. Unpleasant. It lacked the sweetness or perhaps the vitality of the blood that Magnus had given up to him willingly.

But wait. Sherlock. He walks back to the room, marveling that he really has no need for light. The heaviness of his limbs that had been present upon his waking is gone now. He relishes his newfound strength. Unlike Sherlock, he had lived his life. He had no regrets, other than how difficult and strained his relationship with his brother had been. Oh, and leaving Anthea to clean up the mess. She would be most upset with him leaving her like this. Especially without another word from him. 

He looks forward to breaking all his limits in this new life.

His brother still lies in repose. The translucent quality of his flesh that Mycroft had noticed when Sherlock hadn’t partaken in days has never been so apparent. How many days have they slumbered here? Mycroft wonders. He sighs. He has no way to tell. He feels naked without his phone, like he’s missing an essential part of his personage. A chuckle escapes from him when he realizes that he is in fact, naked. Oh dear. He had attacked the Ancient like a crazed madman in his desire to quench his thirst for blood. Like a mindless animal. 

_ Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock.  _ Mycroft lies down next to his brother, not daring to utter a word. He doesn’t wish to disturb his brother, but sooner or later, that craving for blood will flare up again, and he will need a drink. He doesn’t dare leave the place, for he knows there is much he has to learn before he can walk amongst the humans once more. He doesn’t want to be responsible for another human-vampire incident. 

Then suddenly, there’s a hand on his cheek. Sherlock is looking at him. Examining him. Like he had done many times when Mycroft had been human. His brother tugs at Mycroft’s hair, traces the curve of his jaw and runs his fingers across his still hirsute body. Fingers gently rub against that spot on Mycroft’s neck where Sherlock had liked to stick his fangs in. The faintest buzz of pleasure seems to echo, but that whatever it is  _ (magic) _ that had tied himself and Sherlock as vampire and thrall seems to have been broken. 

The intense scrutiny is making him uncomfortable so he interrupts.

“Is my form not to your liking, brother mine?”

“I make beautiful fledglings.” Sherlock offers him a smile. “And you have fed. It’s disconcerting, dearest, that I am no longer able to discern your innermost thoughts.” 

“Well, you did say being a vampire had sucked all the fun out of deduction. You shall have to dust off your old craft and practice it once more.” 

“Perhaps I shall. But, Mycroft – you were always difficult to read. For the longest time… I have to confess, I thought you were unfeeling. You were always doing what I thought was proper. WIthin duty. That you were ashamed of me. But now I see… that you’ve always cared –”

“Sherlock. I reflected upon our relationship. Especially after you left London. Your difficulties. How you lashed out against me. I’ve always thought that you wanted nothing to do with me. But that’s not true either.”

Sherlock looks warily at him. But he then says. “Perhaps we should talk whenever we are unsure of ourselves. Like everyone else on this God-forsaken planet does. Or ideally should do. Lest we misinterpret our words again. I don’t want to quarrel with you, and not see you again in centuries because of a silly little trifle.”

Mycroft laughs easily. “We are both stubborn creatures.”

“Indeed.” Sherlock winks at him. He holds his arms out and says tenderly. “Come to me, darling. You will thirst soon, and you may drink from me. Rather than my ghastly Maker.”

To think he would have lost this opportunity if Sherlock hadn’t arrived in time! Mycroft goes readily into his brother’s arms. They fit perfectly. Comfortably. Neither of them speak, happy to enjoy being so close to each other. The craving for blood eventually makes itself known. Remembering his previous experience, Mycroft lets his own instincts guide him – sinking down his fangs into Sherlock’s carotid. 

He sucks feverently, enjoying the flavour of hot vampiric blood. The blood of a vampire always seems to be on the warmer side, even if the body that carries it is frigid like his brother’s. When his hunger abates somewhat, he notices the beat of Sherlock’s heart. The rhythmic pumping of the heart seems to transmit to Mycroft’s own body. He is shocked when he hears a  _ Good  _ in his mind. 

_ We can communicate when we drink, brother mine. But it’s good that you’ve noticed the beating of the heart. You will need to be mindful of this when you go out into the world and feast on humans.  _

Mycroft tries to communicate his own thoughts.

_ Is this method only limited to words?  _

_ No. I don’t think so. I didn’t test out the limits of this method with Magnus. It seemed… too intimate for my liking. And I didn’t want to encourage him. _

_ Understandable. _

Sherlock’s heart beats faster when his body realizes that a substantial amount of blood is being drawn from him. A residual human response. The heart trying to circulate blood quicker through the system, attempting to maintain adequate perfusion of the tissues. Mycroft, fearing that he’s taking too much, starts retracting his fangs, but Sherlock’s hand reaches upward and presses lightly against Mycroft’s head – keeping him there.

_ Drink until my heart slows. It would be good practice. That would be the time to stop drinking from a human if you don’t wish to drink them dead.  _

_ Lock, I don’t wish to harm you. _

_ You are doing very well for a fledgling not even a day old from their first slumber. Most are like animals, crazed for the thirst of blood. Many newly-made vampires lose their reason, and must be culled. No, Mycie, you are not harming me. I wish for you to take as much as you can. I will go out and feast later, so that you may have more blood later.  _

_ You aren’t taking me with you, Lock? _

_ I wish for you to become acquainted with your new body before you venture out, Mycroft. It will take time. Time to learn how to do everything as a human ought. I know you think we should leave London, but you should learn how to handle yourself amongst the ranks of the living first.  _

Mycroft slows down his drinking, wanting to prolong this connection with his brother. It’s so different now. Sherlock and he are more equal in this arrangement, although his little brother will have to be his guide for the beginning of this adventure. His brother’s heart still pumps quickly, so he has some ways to go. But he tires of talking about practicalities. He’s here with his brother. They have what seems like an eternity to discover each other. The world. Witness history on a macroscale that he had never expected to see. Maybe even help shape it with his newfound powers. His manipulations and schemes would no longer have to pertain to just the United Kingdom. Civilizations will fall. And rise. 

_ Already plotting, big brother mine? _

_ You saw all of that! _

_ Yup. Just… do not neglect me when you feel like playing God, Mycroft.  _

_ You… do not object to my potential hobby? _

_ Well, it violates sacred vampiric law to meddle, but it’s not like we were ever good law-abiding citizens, Mycie. And of course, you would ascend from the lowly position of the British Government to deity. _

_ And… I would not intentionally neglect you. Master.  _

_ None of this Master nonsense, Mycie. We are equals. _

And suddenly, Mycroft sees himself standing somewhere isolated. Remote. Soft sand between his toes. The lapping of waves against the shore. The stars twinkling in the skies. The warmth and humidity offset by the sea breeze. The salty air in his nose. 

A warm arm encircles his waist. Sherlock’s. His brother’s eyes are sparkling under the starlight. The blue-green-greys have just as much depth and turbulence as the sea. Sherlock is naked. The planes of his alabaster and muscular body serve as an arena for the ambient shadows to dance. Then plush lips are against his, and they are snogging. It feels so real. Sherlock’s nose brushing against his. His brother’s hands sliding against his own bare back. The press of his body against his. The gasp of pleasure when their groins meet each other, adding much-welcome friction.  _ Sherlock. _ He utters in bliss, feeling his eyes shut to feel each and every sensation. 

Then there is the shock of his bare foot hitting the sea. It is lukewarm and not at all unpleasant. 

_ You impertinent brat! _ Mycroft reprimands when Sherlock kicks water onto him and drives him deeper into the sea. 

Sherlock only smirks. Wickedness dances in his irises. The water is now lapping at their thighs. With one last playful push, Mycroft is floating on his back. Sherlock joins him immediately, putting his lips to use before Mycroft could complain. Right. They no longer need to breathe. Mycroft sighs in pleasure when Sherlock brings their cocks together. A wave takes them under, and somehow it just makes the whole experience more intriguing. It appears that they have a lot of creative sex to look forward to in the future. After they had shared pleasure (it really had felt like they were experiencing it for real), they swim out and find a small vessel carrying a bounty of cocaine. There are two smugglers aboard, and they hunt them both down. 

Mycroft opts to drink his victim dry and fling them overboard. Sherlock does the same. His brother takes control of the ship and resets the autopilot to an alternative destination while Mycroft searches for any tracking devices that may be aboard. Duties done, Sherlock rests on the roof. Mycroft joins him with a blanket that he had found. 

He feels the pulse of Sherlock’s heart start to fade in its speed and intensity, so remembering his instructions, he reluctantly retracts his fangs – cutting off the dreamworld they had been sharing. His brother has his eyes closed in bliss. Sherlock is shrivelled, having given Mycroft a great volume of his blood. 

“Don’t worry about me, Mycie. Fledglings need their blood.” 

“You… don’t look so great.” Mycroft admits. 

“To be expected. Come lie with me. I will go out and hunt before the sun rises. If you feel the instinct to sleep before I get back, Mycie, I want you to seal yourself into the crypt. You are still so new… even if you have old blood running in your veins. Who knows what the sun will do to you… precious one.”

“I don’t want to sleep without you.” Mycroft acknowledges. 

The prospect of sleeping in the pit alone is not appealing whatsoever. 

“I promise I will come back before such a need takes you. But I want you to be safe too. I love you, Mycie.” His brother turns his head to kiss his cheek.

* ** *

**Epilogue:**

“Is this wise, Sherlock?” Mycroft turns his head to glance at his brother.

Sherlock is dressed to kill. In his best suit. They are both garbed in the sort of attire that they had preferred when they were both alive. But, there won’t be any killing today. Or rather, none that are planned. With their invisibility, they slip past the ornate foyer with its imposing columns to one of the reception halls. Its entrance bearing the placard:

> ~ Dr. John Watson & Mrs. Mary Morstan ~

“It’s a fitting way to say goodbye, I think. We won’t stay long. Then we can leave the country. Unless… you want to go to your funeral?”

“Oh dear god, no.” Mycroft shakes his head with some vehemence. 

It had taken the MI5 months to sort out the circumstances of his death. Sherlock had taken a few days to carry out what he had promised to do – the annihilation of the coven that had ‘killed’ Mycroft. He had spared no one. 

His brother hadn’t wanted to carry out this vengeance as his anger had abated by the time Mycroft had been ready to take on the world himself as a vampire, but that would mean going back on his word. And in the world of vampires, a show of power is essential.

But before this, a truce had been negotiated between the MI5 and the vampire covens of London. The vampires having realized that it is too late to keep their secrecy, and the MI5 having realized that they were completely out of their depth to eliminate creatures that mimicked and lived amongst humans and had supernatural abilities that defied their understanding (and known laws of physics and biology).

Mycroft watches as Sherlock surveys the assemblage of merrymakers. Dinner had concluded. A few guests were still tucking into their desserts. Fortunately, the speeches have all been done and dusted, so Mycroft is spared from listening to any praise directed Watson-ward. Mycroft doesn’t care for any human in the room, but he watches his brother seek out each one of his old friends in turn. 

There is Mrs. Hudson sitting next to Mr. Chatterjee, waiting for the first dance of the happy couple. Her spirits seem to have recovered somewhat from their last meeting. Then Ms. Hooper with her new boyfriend (that kind of looks like Sherlock). The Detective Inspector chatting with what appears to be Dr. Watson’s old friend… or rather… former lover(?). One James Sholto. Curious, Mycroft had walked closer to the man’s table to sample his thoughts. 

Hm. A Major. Dr. Watson’s superior when he had been deployed in Afghanistan. Fumbles in close quarters. Bonding over loss. Sharing comfort with each other.  _ Not so gay… _ He muses before moving on. But then again, life in an active combat zone had its own rules. Angelo whispering sweet nothings to a dark-skinned lady. His wife. 

Then the self-appointed MC grabs the mic and opens the dancing with the Watsons. 

“They look happy.” Sherlock remarks, looking from afar. He then says quietly. “She’s pregnant.”

“That’s not atypical.” Mycroft nods, having sensed the new life just as Sherlock did. He neglects to mention Mary’s sordid past, and he knows Sherlock isn’t delving too deeply into any of his friends’ minds. A healthy boundary. “A new beginning. And the end of an era.”

“I don’t regret anything.” Sherlock says determinedly.

“Brother, let’s not get too nostalgic. Especially if I can’t get drunk before you start your reminiscences.” 

Before his brother could retort, Mycroft holds out his arm when the first dance ends and people start streaming onto the dance floor to join the couple. Sherlock takes his hand, and follows the simple steps of a waltz. 

“We should get married.” Sherlock muses when they are pressed up against each other. “Under different names. Maybe tomorrow? We will be in Paris.” 

“Romantic, Lock.” Mycroft says with the straightest face he could muster. Inside though, he is thrilling at such an idea. Even though vampires do not follow the social constructs that humans do. 

“Shush Mycroft – you love it.” Sherlock says as he comes out of a spin. “Oh, I am sorry – let me try that again.” Mycroft practically gapes when Sherlock slips out of his arms and kneels on the floor. “Fledgling, would you do me the honour of making me an honest vampire?” 

Mycroft is fighting the urge to laugh. This is too absurd. “I am sure it's considered improper to propose at someone else’s wedding.”

“I am also sure it’s considered impolite to crash someone’s party uninvited.” Sherlock is still kneeling, his eyes looking imploringly at Mycroft. “But they are all human customs, Mycie. We have to make our own.”

“Lock…” Mycroft extends a hand and helps his brother up from his knees. “It’s no more than what I’ve been doing throughout my entire existence. It would be nice to make it official –”

He ducks a swat from Sherlock. Instead, he catches the offending hand and presses the beautiful (elegant, warm, soft) fingers against his lips. They had fed before coming here, wanting to diminish the risk that one of them would be tempted to drink from their old acquaintances. His brother noticeably shivers when Mycroft traces the course of radialis indicis artery with the tip of his incisor. 

“Mycroft…” Sherlock manages. 

“Lockie.” Mycroft leans forward as he lowers their entwined hands. 

Their lips meet. Slowly. Tenderly. There’s a precious hesitancy about it, even though they’ve kissed so many times. Mycroft lets himself melt into it, losing himself in their kiss. 

_ You haven’t given me an answer. _ Sherlock’s thought brings him back to reality.

_ You know what it is, darling. It’s always the same. Yes.  _ Mycroft shudders in pleasure as Sherlock’s fangs have made themselves at home in his neck.  _ Come, little brother mine, let us leave this place.  _

Sherlock pulls away. There’s something unfathomable in his eyes. He glances wistfully at the dancing individuals around them. Then he grabs Mycroft’s hand firmly and kisses him once more fiercely.

“Lead on then, Mycie.” 

And the two of them disappear into the darkness of infinite nights. 

**FIN**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Decided to publish the rest in one. Hope you guys enjoyed this one! As always, thanks so much for your support, kudos and comments <3 They mean a lot!
> 
> I've been working on another fic (50k words in) which is why I haven't been posting as much for my standards. I will start publishing it soon. 
> 
> I know I've been neglecting all my old works, but I am just letting my muse do what it wants. Terrible excuse, but it is what it is. I will come back to some eventually.


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